


His Brother's Keeper

by SanBaerli



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5010052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanBaerli/pseuds/SanBaerli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a seemingly random attack almost claims the life of one of their own, it is soon discovered that a ruthless scheme for revenge is in motion. As a painful memory of his past is exposed in the process, Aramis struggles with the ramifications. Friendship, Brotherhood and H/C.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This story is set in season 1, a couple of months after episode 4 (Good Soldier). The plot line focuses on Aramis and so does a good portion of the H/C. That being said, none of them make it through this completely unscathed :)

First and foremost this is supposed to be a tale about the friendship of four men who would do absolutely anything for each other.

This story is complete with a total of eight chapters plus epilogue. One chapter will be posted every two days.

I truly hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think. SanB

Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize here.

* * *

_**His Brother's Keeper** _

_Chapter 1_

_Aramis POV_

The afternoon sun still smiled at them warmly right before sliding behind a cluster of trees in the distance, casting the first shadows of an early evening. Aramis estimated a few hours of daylight yet remained, and if they were able to maintain their horse's current speed, they would surely arrive back at the garrison before nightfall.

The route they had chosen led them through the open country, the River Seine on their far left side being a steady and reliable guide to Paris while a plateau of green grassy hills stretched before them.

Roads this far outside of the city could always be compared to an obstacle course, Aramis mused, as he avoided yet another pothole.

The path was lined by the occasional outcropping of trees and brush; the precursors to the dense forest they would enter a few leagues down the road, thus far still obscured by the rolling landscape.

Around midday, they had left the road to eat a quick meal and allow themselves and the horses a brief rest on the shores of the Seine, before resuming their journey.

When they had pushed on, nearing the forest ahead, Aramis had had time to reflect upon the mission they had just completed successfully.

The prior day Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan and himself had been sent to Rouen, the capital city of Normandy, to deliver an important missive from the King to the Comte de Mirabeau.

This was not a mission that would normally require four seasoned soldiers, but there had been reports of bandits terrorizing the outlying villages of Rouen and the King had been anxious that the sensitive details of his message might fall into the wrong hands.

Captain Treville had assured his majesty that his missive would arrive safely at its designated destination and had entrusted the four of them to complete the task.

They had arrived in Rouen the evening before without incident. After delivering the missive they had been entrusted with, the King's Musketeers had even been invited to stay the night at the Comte's chateau.

As soon as dawn had broken over the horizon the next day, they had started their long journey back to Paris as ordered.

Their horses now crested the last of the grassy hills and Aramis called his thoughts back to the present as they followed the gentle downward slope on the other side of the hill, entering the forest before them.

Shifting in his saddle, Aramis attempted to ease his discomfort. It had been another long day on horseback with little rest to ensure their timely arrival at the garrison. He longed to be back in his city to unwind in a tavern and enjoy a good bottle of wine in the company of good friends.

As he turned his head to the left to settle his eyes on the imposing figure of Porthos, he could tell the bigger man was most likely thinking along the same lines. He too had started shifting in his saddle, his brow furrowed in annoyance.

A voice from up front drew his attention away from Porthos and his musings. "I sincerely hope we get to Paris before long. I am starving. I think I could eat an entire pig. Or a cow." D'Artagnan was absently rubbing the back of his neck with one hand as he voiced his complaint. "Maybe both."

Turning his head towards the young Gascon, Athos raised a questioning eyebrow. "I must have been asleep and dreaming then when I saw you eat an entire family of fish not four hours ago."

D'Artagnan smiled sheepishly. "That family did not have enough relatives to satisfy." Turning half way in his saddle, he was evidently hoping for Porthos and Aramis to be more sympathetic to his plight. "You can't honestly tell me that no one else is hungry?"

Aramis turned to look at Porthos as he heard the man chuckle; the deep and familiar sound always making him feel content. "I'll bet anything Aramis is still plenty  _satisfied_  from last night's supper. That maid was so smitten by 'im, she refilled his plate, what, four times? Whole family could 'ave lived on that amount of food for an entire week."

Aramis's grin brightened his face at the memory of the pretty housemaid and the plentiful supper they had enjoyed the night before. And even though he hadn't indulged in the 'dessert' the maid had secretly offered only to him, he cheerfully responded to Porthos's teasing.

"Is that jealousy I detect in your voice dear friend? I'm afraid I can't help it." Dramatically putting a hand over his heart, he concluded his overly confident speech. "They seem to be drawn to me like a moth to a flame."

The answering voice from the front was dripping with its habitual sarcasm. "If you are not careful, you will set yourself and your moth on fire one of these days."

Porthos and d'Artagnan still quietly chuckled at Athos's retort when suddenly something changed. It was only a feeling at first. The air around them seemed to have gone too still, the trees and brush lining the forest path suddenly too dark and oppressive.

Aramis marginally stiffened in his saddle as a slight shiver rolled down his spine. Something told him they were being watched, and he had long since learned to trust his instincts.

He started to inconspicuously scan the edges of the path and the thick brush and trees beyond.

"What is it?" Porthos must have noticed his change in demeanor and rigid posture, considering that his voice was no more than a low rumble.

"I am not sure." Aramis's increasing sense of urgency belied his whispered reply as his eyes now frantically searched the brush. He had barely finished his sentence when he realized that something was terribly wrong.

A glint caught his eye.

Aramis recognized with a start that what he was seeing was the remaining light of the evening sun reflecting off the barrel of a musket. A musket and whoever was behind it, hidden mostly by a cluster of thick bushes. A musket that was only twenty yards away, aiming directly at him.

" _Ambush!"_

As he shouted the warning, Aramis pulled on the reins of his mare, attempting to change direction and move his head out of the line of fire.

When the report of the weapon echoed through the forest, sharp pain exploded behind his eyes as the ball whizzed past his ear, furrowing a deep graze into his left temple on its way.

As his gloved hand went up to press at the wound instinctively, he dimly registered the feeling of warm blood running down the side of his face.

For a moment, the world seemed to be bathed in a white light, hazy and blurred around the edges. No sound was audible to him as his confused mind was trying to comprehend that six men, all clad in black leather, had just broken cover on the right side of the path to charge at them with full speed.

Turning his muddled head, which was still covered in the fog that would deny him all sound, he instinctively sought out his friends.

Athos and d'Artagnan had turned their horses around and had readily positioned themselves between him and the attackers to provide him some cover.

Aramis realized he needed to move, needed to act before it was too late. He was acutely aware of the fact that he couldn't afford even another second to sit atop his horse, motionless.

He understood all of that and yet… the temporary loss of his hearing seemed to suspend him in time, his limbs stubbornly refusing to obey his commands.

His vision started to waver alarmingly for a second as he watched d'Artagnan pull his arquebus from his saddlebag, aiming and firing the weapon with skillful precision. The ball found the intended target as it buried itself into the chest of the man leading the crowd, instantly felling him in a spray of blood.

The young Gascon quickly slid off his horse. Pulling his rapier out of its sheath on his waist, d'Artagnan almost visibly buzzed with energy and anticipation for battle.

Athos was still in his saddle; arquebus leveled at the next assailant. Before he fired however, he turned his head and for only a second, his piercing blue eyes locked onto Aramis's.

He recognized concern on his friend's face, but also saw the same fierce determination that had more than once before seen them through uncertain situations such as this.

Athos's mouth was moving now, shouting at him, obviously trying to shake him from his daze. If only he could hear a single. damn. thing.

It was then that he felt a heavy hand on his left shoulder, the familiar weight drawing his head back around.

_Porthos._

His friend had moved his horse to stand next to him and had clearly been trying to draw his attention.

Leaning over, Porthos moved his hand from Aramis's shoulder to the back of his neck and squeezed tightly. He felt his eyes close in reaction to the touch and just like that, sound returned to him in a deafening roar.

He could hear the wind rustling through the trees, the sounds of battle behind them, steel clashing and most importantly… Porthos's voice.

"…Answer me, Aramis. Are you with me?"

Slowly opening his eyes again, Aramis found that the solid feeling of Porthos's hand on his neck, as well as his unwavering gaze, were able to ground him like nothing else ever could.

He locked eyes with his friend and nodded once in confirmation, pushing down the nausea that threatened to rise at the movement.

Another shot was fired. The obvious concern never left Porthos's face, but he dropped his hand and in unison they turned to see Athos discard his arquebus, jump off his horse and meet his next attacker steel on steel.

"Are you ready for this?" Porthos asked, eying Aramis apprehensively.

"Ready as ever." His voice didn't sound quite right, even to his own ears.

Watching as Porthos dismounted his horse, Aramis steeled himself for what was to come. Sliding off his mare as quickly as he was able, he readied himself to join Athos and d'Artagnan in battle.

When his feet touched the ground, he tried hard to suppress the lingering feeling of dizziness and clear his still hazy head. He knew if he didn't succeed he would be dead before he could ever fully recover his senses.

Porthos drew his shianova but then halted in his movements as something seemingly caught his eye on the other side of the path. Aramis detected the alarm on his friend's face just before Porthos's shout echoed through the air.

"Bleedin' Christ. Aramis, watch out!"

Porthos's voice rose over the noise of battle, and when he followed his friend's wild gaze, Aramis realized with a start that seven more men were about to attack.

On this side of the path, their assailants had used the initial commotion to crawl stealthily ever closer through the thick brush and were now almost upon them.

Realizing that their position was discovered, their attackers broke cover and charged.

Quickly freeing his pistol from his belt, he aimed swiftly and pulled the trigger from behind his horse, hitting one of the men in the chest, dead center.

He watched detachedly as his opponent collapsed none too graceful, a rapidly growing bloodstain saturating the man's dark leathers.

The pistol fire must have spooked his mare because the animal ran off down the path.

Aramis didn't stop moving. In one fluid motion, he discarded his pistol and pulled his rapier, keeping a tight grip on the hilt.

Sparing a quick glance at Porthos, he watched as his friend delivered a brutal kick to his opponent's gut. It eased his mind to know that even on his worst day Porthos would be a force to be reckoned with.

Stepping forward, Aramis prepared to meet his next adversary.

When the sword rushed at him in a downward angle and a blur of steel, he quickly deflected the blade with his own. Pushing forward with deadly intent, he first disarmed the man swiftly with an elegant twist of his arm and then drove his rapier forward to pierce his heart without hesitation.

While pulling his weapon free of the man's chest however, his vision started to swim in and out of focus. He realized that he needed to finish this quickly as his head pounded in a fierce rhythm with his hammering breath, leaving no doubt that he would not be able to keep this up for long.

When a third attacker hurried to take the dead man's place, Aramis hastily parried the advancing blow with his rapier; staggering with the force of the impact. Using his free hand, he pulled his main gauche from the sheath behind his back and with a vicious upward thrust plunged the short blade into the man's throat.

The assailant was on his feet for only a moment longer, a bloody gurgle emanating from around the blade lodged in his throat. When his eyes finally rolled back into his head, he collapsed bonelessly to the ground.

Panting hard and desperately trying to keep his vision focused, Aramis made a move to pull his main gauche free when he was viciously kicked in the back of the knee.

His next opponent obviously didn't see the need to wait his turn and had circled around to attack him from behind. When his knee buckled in reaction to the unexpected blow, he did not get the chance to recover his wits before he caught another kick to his ribs, delivered with brute strength.

The sheer force and momentum of the blow had him crashing into the ground, face down.

Through the haze that had made itself at home inside his head, he only dimly registered the crack that signaled one of his ribs giving way. Drawing his right arm tightly around his midsection, he instinctively sought to protect himself against the agonizing sensation.

The effort it cost him just to cling to consciousness was immense as darkness seemed determined to encroach on his vision.

In the dark recesses of his mind though, Aramis realized exactly how dire his situation was, and he knew if he didn't move  _now_ , he would be sent to meet his maker. He managed to get his left arm underneath him and pushed himself over onto his back, staring directly at the imposing figure standing above.

Desperately trying to ignore the excruciating feeling in his side, he pushed up to his elbows in an effort to regain his feet.

Before he could level himself even halfway off the ground, however, he caught another brutal kick to his midsection and collapsed backward with such force that his already battered head smashed into the ground beneath him.

All he was able to register now was pain and darkness and it took all of his remaining strength not to succumb to its beckoning call.

After a moment, Aramis managed to open his eyes slowly.

Before him stood a man with broad shoulders and an unruly shock of black hair. His solidly built body was clad in leather breeches and a black leather doublet. The brim of his hat cast a shadow on his face in the evening light, somewhat obscuring his features.

The man's piercing eyes were quite visible however and even though it didn't make any sense in Aramis's foggy mind, he could have sworn that the deathly glare directed at him was filled with pure hatred and disdain.

Aramis watched him free his pistol from his weapons belt with an angry snarl on his face and realized that this man would show no mercy.

Turning his throbbing head, Aramis's eyes frantically searched for anything he might be able to use to defend himself with. He noticed the main gauche he had dropped earlier and reached for it, stretching as far as his screaming ribs would allow.

His opponent raised the pistol, taking aim.

As Aramis's finger tips just barely made contact with the blade, it briefly crossed his mind that the idea of him deflecting a ball with his main gauche was quite laughable indeed. He had brought a dagger to a pistol fight; a dagger he couldn't even fully grasp.

The man's dark eyes narrowed menacingly as his finger tightened on the trigger and Aramis suddenly felt a measure of deep regret at the reality that he would not make it out of this alive.

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

_Porthos POV_

Another seven men. Still no insurmountable odds and certainly not the worst they had ever faced and yet, Porthos was nervous; a feeling he was not accustomed to and certainly didn't care for.

He was worried about Aramis.

His friend was unsteady on his feet and far too pale. His hat had fallen off when he was grazed by the musket ball, but Porthos was certain the loss had gone unnoticed.

Fresh blood still seeped from the wide gash on Aramis's temple, painting a grotesque picture on white canvas.

Porthos knew his friend would keep fighting for as long as he had to. Or until he was unable to fight any longer. He vowed to move heaven and earth to be there should that moment come.

With a last brief glance in Aramis's direction he was reassured to witness his friend raising his pistol to take aim; a fiery gleam shone in his eyes despite his ghastly appearance.

Porthos stepped forward with enthusiasm, raising his shianova overhead to deflect a blow swung at him from above. At the same time he bent his left leg to kick the man low in the stomach with brute strength, driving him back.

He didn't give his attacker time to recover.

Stepping up in front him, Porthos grabbed a fist full of the man's hair and shoved him head first into the next tree. He listened to the sickening crack with satisfaction, watching as the man crumbled at his feet.

Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos saw the glint of a dagger, raised to plunge into his neck from the side. He quickly dropped his broadsword in favor of raising his hand to seize the man's wrist. He was about to shove this fellow into the same tree as he had his associate when he heard Athos shout from a distance.

"Porthos, behind you!"

With movements faster than anyone ever thought him capable of, he twisted his assailants arm around the man's neck and spun them both around. Pinning the man to his chest and holding him in place, Porthos had created an effective shield for himself.

Three yards away he could see the threat Athos had warned him of.

The last man of this blasted group had somehow managed to circle around him with the intent to shoot him in the back.

When the pistol fired, however, Porthos's enemy only managed to fell his comrade. The man Porthos was holding on to sagged in his arms like a puppet with severed strings when the ball pierced his chest. Porthos dropped him to the ground unceremoniously.

He was extremely ready to be done with this lot.

Reaching behind him, he wound his fingers tightly around the hilt of his main gauche. Accompanied by a deep growl of annoyance Porthos hurled the weapon with fierce strength, hitting home in the center of the man's chest who had just tried to shoot him.

Realizing he was now in the clear, Porthos quickly surveyed his surroundings, taking stock.

All four horses had fled.

Several yards in front of him, on the other side of the road, he watched Athos smash the hilt of his rapier into his opponents face to drive him back. Twisting his weapon back around with an elegant flip of his wrist, his friend moved in for the killing blow.

Porthos counted two dead bodies at Athos's feet.  _Good_.

D'Artagnan was also engaged with his last attacker. Porthos could tell that the youngest member of their group had handled himself well. Not that he had expected any less. What d'Artagnan lacked in experience, he more than made up for in fierce determination and ferocity.

One of the bodies at his young friend's feet sported a hole in the middle of his forehead; the other still had d'Artagnan's main gauche protruding from his throat.

Just now the young Gascon let out a fierce yell, lunging forward to pierce his attacker's chest without hesitation.

Porthos nodded once in satisfaction at the fact that his friends had things well in hand on their end.

He finally turned to look for Aramis. When he spotted his friend several yards to his right, his blood ran cold.

Aramis was prone on his back, eyes closed and his face deathly pale. From the distance, Porthos couldn't make out whether or not he was still breathing. The large man standing over his friend had his pistol raised, finger already tightening on the trigger.

Porthos spurred into action at the horrific scene before him. While reaching to draw his own pistol he thought to distract the burly man to buy himself enough time to complete his movement.

"Hey there, over here!"

The sudden yell was enough for the other man to ease up on the trigger for a second and half turn to investigate its source.

Porthos held his breath and fired.

Unfortunately, his angle was less than favorable, and the ball hit high in the assailant's right shoulder.

He didn't go down.

The man only staggered back a step, but soon regained his balance and turned his attention back to Aramis with a determined scowl on his face and murderous intent in his dark eyes.

A jolt of adrenalin spiked Porthos's system at the sight. He started moving with fast, long strides, flipping his pistol in his hand, fully prepared to use it as a club.

Even though he was only several yards short of his intended target, he blanched at the realization that he wasn't going to make it in time.

The man's finger already tightened on the trigger again.

_No_.

His eyes instinctively moved to settle on Aramis. To his surprise his friend was now up on his left elbow, reaching for his dagger with his right, face scrunched up in pain. His fingers had only just tightened around the blade when Aramis drew his arm back as far as he could manage and hurled the weapon through the air in a last-ditch effort to save his life.

The main gauche dug itself into its targets left shoulder.

The fire of a pistol echoed through the forest at the same time.

Porthos stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide, only one thought managing to penetrate the panic that was coursing through his system.  _"Aramis!"_

Only after the initial shock had passed, he realized that his friend was not dead. Staring back at him instead, Aramis was still propped up on his elbow, eyes wide in his pale face.

"Surprisingly, I am still here."

The shock on Aramis's face no doubt mirrored his own.

They both looked over to see Aramis's attacker had gone still, his eyes tightly shut and his pistol no longer aiming at the man on the ground, but hanging limply at his side.

From his position, Porthos could now see a gaping hole in the man's back. And yet, somehow he remained on his feet.

Another shot quickly followed the first and this time the assailant finally crumbled in front of Aramis's feet, dead eyes staring into oblivion.

Porthos exhaled in relief and looked to see Athos and d'Artagnan several yards to his left, both still holding on to their pistols.

Athos spoke first, "I apologize for my tardiness; the last man I fought refused to die quickly."

"Unfortunately I had a similar problem," d'Artagnan added sullenly, rubbing at a tender spot on his forehead where an ugly bruise started to form. "Although I am fairly certain, that I could have been significantly faster if I wasn't so hungry."

The young man's attempt to lighten the mood had Athos raise an eyebrow in response.

Porthos huffed out a humorless laugh; the adrenaline still coursing through his system refusing to let him settle down quite yet. He turned back to Aramis and quickly closed the distance between him and his friend.

Staring hollow-eyed at the large dead man who had been so determined to end is life, Aramis looked visibly shaken.

Porthos stepped into his friend's line of sight, and when that failed to draw Aramis's attention, he crouched down next to him, resting a hand on the side of his neck.

"Hey there brother, you alright?" Porthos almost didn't recognize his voice when it sounded low and hoarse.

With no reply immediately forthcoming, he surreptitiously began to check his friend for injuries.

The nasty graze running along the left side of Aramis's head still sluggishly seeped blood and was certainly deep enough to require stitches.

Aramis had yet to move, and his right arm was drawn protectively around his midsection, his breathing coming harsh and shallow.

_His ribs._  Porthos filed the thought away for later.

Turning his head to lock eyes with Porthos, Aramis's face scrunched up in pain and his breath came in short bursts when he finally answered. "I have to admit. I did not expect. to be alive. but it almost looks. like I am. so yes, I will be fine. my friend."

"Steady now. Try and slow your breathin'," Porthos cautioned. "In.. and out. There that's better" – Porthos gently squeezed his shoulder in support – "You had me worried."

"Me too. That was an extremely dramatic performance." D'Artagnan added. "Next time try calling for assistance."

"Like a damsel in distress? No, thank you, I would rather take my chances." Porthos scowled at his friend's attempt at levity, noticing that Athos and d'Artagnan wore similar expressions.

Having the good sense to realize that no one was amused, Aramis continued more seriously. "I do apologize, however, if I caused you grief. That was certainly not my intention." Briefly locking eyes with each of them, he added, "Luckily I have three friends I can count on."

When Athos spoke, his voice was devoid of his typical sarcasm. "It's nothing you haven't done before; for any of us."

Acknowledging the sentiment with a nod of his head, Aramis's gesture was slightly ruined when he squeezed his eyes shut.

Porthos reached to gently grasp Aramis's left elbow as he said, "let's get you up an' take a good look at the damage that's been done."

Carefully hauling Aramis to his feet, he watched in concern as his friend paled even further at the change in elevation.

As his knees threatened to buckle underneath him, Porthos took on most of the other man's weight and put a steadying hand on his chest. "Easy now. Worst part's over."

He wasn't entirely certain if he sought to reassure Aramis or himself.

"Let's have a seat over there." He had noticed a fallen log a few paces to the right and gently eased Aramis down.

"How bad is the damage?" Athos inquired when he and d'Artagnan came to stand next to them.

Porthos bent forward, gently starting to prod the wound on the side of Aramis's head. His friend stayed quiet during his administrations, but couldn't quite hide his grimace.

Porthos winced in sympathy. "This bloody mess 'ere requires a few stitches; it hasn't stopped bleedin'."

Reaching inside his doublet, he produced a handkerchief and handed it to Aramis. "Here, hold this in place for now. We need the medical supplies; then we can patch you up in no time."

His friend took the piece of cloth offered to him, pressing it against the side of his head.

"The medical supplies are in Aramis's saddle bag," d'Artagnan stated.

Athos turned to the young Gascon. "You and I will go round up the horses then; they shouldn't have gone too far." With a regretful look in Aramis's direction he added, "We can't remain here for long; we will need to make haste to reach Paris before nightfall."

Aramis lifted his bloody and weary head and met Athos's eyes; his surprisingly steady voice was a stark contrast to his battered appearance. "I will be ready."

Nodding in acknowledgment, Athos turned to leave with d'Artagnan.

"Athos." Aramis waited until their lieutenants' eyes were on him once more. "We don't yet know the reason for this assault. Be vigilant. There might be more of them out there."

"Agreed."

After watching his two friends leave to retrieve the horses, Porthos turned back to Aramis. Crossing his arms in front of his chest, he shot his friend a stern look. "Alright, now. Let's see 'em."

"See what?"

"Your ribs. I know there's somethin' wrong."

Aramis looked back at him and for a moment Porthos thought his stubborn friend might try to argue the point. In the face of Porthos's determined stare, however, Aramis sighed heavily and conceded quickly.

"Very well. I do admit; some blunt force may have been used in an attempt to push me to the ground and convince me to stay there."

After Aramis lowered the bloody handkerchief to rest on the log next to him, he first removed his weapons belt and sash and then started to unbutton his doublet. He couldn't hide the cringe as the action seemed to jar his injuries.

Porthos watched as his friend awkwardly fumbled with his leathers, his movements slow and stilted. The rush of battle had abated by now, and Aramis looked beyond tired and weary.

The dark blood almost completely covering the left side of his head was a constant reminder of how close his friend had come to dying today.

As the last button came undone, Porthos moved closer. "Here, let me." He assisted Aramis to carefully maneuver his arms out of the leather and placed the coat on the log.

"Hold up your shirt for me so that I can take a look." Aramis did as he was told, revealing a colorful array of mottled bruising down the right side of his torso. Porthos whistled in response.

"That looks like it's gonna sting for a while. Let's just make sure none of them ribs are shifting about and able to pierce a lung."

Crouching down, he started to prod at Aramis's ribs as gently as he was able. As he came to the third rib, he felt it shift underneath his searching fingers and looked up at his friend when he heard Aramis's hiss of pain. His breathing came in shallower gasps than before.

"Deep breaths brother, nice and easy."

Porthos quickly finished his administrations and then put a steadying hand on Aramis's shoulder. "One of them is certainly broken, and at least one more is cracked. We'll bind them for the return trip to Paris. Riding a horse right now is not gonna be enjoyable either way, but it might give you some support."

Porthos was surprised when Aramis suddenly huffed out a laugh and seemed to have trouble to contain his amusement. Of course, the action jarred his ribs again, and he tried hard not to grimace in pain. "Don't make me laugh," he pleaded, as he kept trying to get his breathing under control.

"Wasn't tryin' to. What's funny?" Porthos's voice betrayed his confusion.

"Your instructions, my friend. I remember distinctly giving you all the same advice, last time  _your_  ribs were injured."

Porthos grinned widely. "Yeah, well. Gotta get my medical knowledge from somewhere, don't I? At least you know it's been tested and proven."

"Indeed. We do seem to get injured on a regular basis," Aramis mused as he reached to his right and handed Porthos the blue sash he had removed from his waist earlier. "Here, use this."

Porthos took the blue piece of cloth from his friend and when Aramis lifted his shirt again, wound it tightly around his midsection. He was trying not to cause any more discomfort, but when he finished Aramis's eyes were tightly closed in his pale face, and his breathing was rapid once more.

Releasing the white-knuckled grip he had on his shirt, Aramis let the material fall to cover the makeshift bandage. He placed his hands on the log on either side of himself and tried to steady his breathing by taking slow and measured breaths.

Porthos moved to sit down on the log next to his friend, shoulders touching in silent support.

As he watched Aramis trying to regain his composure, a thought struck him.

"These men, whoever they were, seemed to be extremely determined to see you dead."

Aramis's brow furrowed in response, and his voice was laced with sarcasm. "Yes thank you. That almost escaped my attention."

"No, I'm serious. Take this burly fellow over there. Even after _I_  shot at him, he trained his pistol back on you. The smart play would have been to shoot me first. I was the bigger threat to his life."

"He must have seen me reach for my main gauche." Aramis reasoned.

Porthos conceded, tilting his head to the side. "I suppose 'at's possible."

Aramis must have heard the doubt in his voice. "But you don't believe that's the reason," he correctly surmised.

Porthos slowly shook his head. "Dunno. I just get the distinct feeling, that that man over there"- he pointed at the corpse of Aramis's last adversary-"wanted to see  _you_  dead. You in particular. I don't think this was a random attack and these folk were not regular bandits."

Porthos fixed his eyes on Aramis. "Does he look familiar at all?"

Aramis looked over to where the large man still lay in the dirt, his eyes staring unseeingly into the distance. "I can't say that he does." He tilted his head to the side in contemplation and Porthos waited until his friend was ready to share his thoughts.

"But you may be right in your assumptions nonetheless. When I was on the ground, and he was about to take my life, there was a moment when I thought I saw something in his eyes. It didn't make any sense to me, but…" – he turned his head away from the corpse to lock eyes with Porthos – "I saw the kind of hatred and loathing on this man's face that most certainly requires a personal reason."

Aramis shook his head slowly in honest confusion. "But I truthfully have no idea what that reason could be; I am certain I have never seen this man before in my life."

Porthos shuddered inwardly at the thought. People with a personal vendetta usually proofed to be extremely determined. "We had better find out then who this fellow was and most importantly; if there's anyone else involved."

Nodding his head slowly, Aramis then indicated the direction of the corpse and said, "Maybe we should see what the dead man can tell us about his purpose."

Porthos grunted in agreement and gave Aramis's leg a brief squeeze as he rose from his position on the log and advised, "Stay here."

He crouched down next to the dead body and started searching the inside pockets of his doublet. Not finding anything of interest, Porthos was about to get up, when he thought of something.

Swiftly pulling off the man's leather gloves, he uncovered a silver ring on his left hand. Porthos pulled the ring off the man's finger and was about to show Aramis his discovery when he saw Athos and d'Artagnan approach from the path, all four horses in tow.

"Find anything of interest?" Athos asked.

Porthos nodded his head, closely inspecting the ring in his hand. "It's a silver ring braided in wire. The letter V is engraved on the inside." He held it out for Aramis to see.

His friend shook his head. "It does not look familiar."

At Athos's questioning glance Porthos explained, "We believe this man may have had… ill feelings of a more personal nature towards Aramis. Maybe this ring can help us identify who he was." Pocketing the ring, he looked up at his friends and witnessed a concerned look pass between Athos and d'Artagnan.

"What is it?" Porthos asked with apprehension.

Tying the reins of the horses to the next tree, Athos answered, "We found something as well."

"Some answers; raising more questions," d'Artagnan added, his eyes moving to rest on Aramis. "It's not good."

Without saying anything else, D'Artagnan opened Aramis's saddle bag to retrieve the leather pouch containing needle, thread, and some linen. He also snatched one of the water skins before closing the distance between him and his friend.

Wordlessly holding up the supplies he carried for Aramis to see, d'Artagnan waited for the other man to nod his consent. Putting the leather pouch on the log, their young friend doused one of the linens with water and set about to diligently clean the deep graze on the side of Aramis's head.

Remaining silent, Athos and Porthos watched them for a moment. The large gash had almost stopped bleeding at this point but was encrusted in dried blood and dirt. When d'Artagnan carefully started to cleanse the wound, it started seeping once more.

"What did you find out?" Aramis asked the question with trepidation in his voice, looking at Athos expectantly.

Moving closer, Athos started his report. "We found two of the horses standing on the path, not far from here. The other two had wandered into the woods. As we followed their trail, it led us to a clearing where we caught up with them. That clearing must have also been the place where these dead gentlemen" – he pointed to one of the corpses on the ground – "made camp."

Athos produced a small but heavy pouch from the inside of his doublet. "They all had one of these stashed in their saddle bags. All but one that is." He threw the pouch at Porthos, who caught it easily.

Porthos opened the pouch and peered inside, already knowing what he would find. "They're mercenaries," he all but growled, his voice dark and dangerous. "This is payment."

Athos nodded in agreement. "And if you are correct about the man with the ring, he may be the one who hired them."

Just then, d'Artagnan finished cleaning Aramis's wound, setting the now dirty and bloody cloth aside. He pulled a folded piece of parchment out of his doublet. "We also found this," he said, as he handed the piece of paper to Aramis.

Porthos watched as his friend unfolded the parchment and started to read. Eying Aramis carefully, he didn't miss the furrowed brow and look of bewilderment.

"What is it?" Porthos asked impatiently. Dread was spreading through his system like a wildfire.

He had known that something was off. Had felt that there was more to this whole damn mess than met the eye. Now he wasn't so sure that he wanted to hear the rest of the truth.

Aramis still stared at the parchment in disbelief. His voice, although serious, also held a modicum of surprise when he answered. "It is a directive; to kill me."

Lifting his head slowly, he met Porthos's eyes. "These men were paid to see me dead. This paper contains a very detailed description of my person, right down to the blue sash I wear around my waist."

"It also contains details about our mission to Rouen," Athos elaborated. "They knew when we left the garrison, when we were likely to return and what route we would take. There is but one logical explanation," –

"Somebody else must be involved. Even if the man with the ring had a personal vendetta; the information on this parchment obviously came from someone else," Porthos finished his friend's sentence. "Someone who either knew about the mission or had access to Treville's office."

Athos nodded in agreement. "We need to return to Paris as quickly as possible and report to Treville. Then we need to get an investigation underway and find out who's behind this" – His gaze traveled to where d'Artagnan just finished his fourth stitch in Aramis's temple – "preferably  _before_  they try again."

"Amen brother," Porthos agreed with steel in his voice.

Closing the distance, he came to stand next to his other two friends. D'Artagnan now straddled the log to Aramis's left to gain better access to the wound. Inserting the curved needle into the tender flesh for a fifth stitch, the young musketeer pulled it through on the other side.

"How's it going over here?" Porthos asked.

The bitterness coloring Aramis's next words surprised him.

"As much as I do enjoy getting shot at and as much as I truly cherish the sensation of a needle in my head, I would greatly prefer it if we were well on our way back to Paris by now."

Aramis had barely finished his sentence when a growl emanated from deep within his throat, a response to the needle entering his skin yet again.

Narrowing his eyes, Porthos looked at his friend closely.

Aramis seemed suddenly anxious, his fingers drumming on the log next to him. Even though his face was still pale and his breathing still slightly hitched, Porthos knew it wasn't physical pain that had his friend on edge.

He had noticed a shift in Aramis's demeanor since he had read the parchment.

Porthos was also aware that Aramis wasn't one to fear for his life. A death threat, however serious, wouldn't rattle him this way.

After all, his friend had been in hell before and fought his way through to the other side. Aramis was a fighter, and he would never shy from battle.

There was only one thing Porthos could think of that would unsettle his friend to this degree.

"There, done." D'Artagnan interrupted his musings, tying off the last stitch. "Nine stitches, nice and neat. Once this heals up, I don't think the ladies will be any the wiser."

Aramis managed a genuine smile at d'Artagnan's gentle teasing. "Thank you, my friend. Your skillful needlework is very much appreciated." Turning his head, he grinned at Porthos. "I think the ladies will be grateful that it wasn't Porthos who did the stitching."

"That's cause I don't stitch. I'm not a damn handmaiden," he grumbled in return, more than willing to join in the banter and distract his friend from any dark thoughts.

As Aramis turned back to d'Artagnan his smile faltered. He seemed to realize for the first time that their young friend sported a decent sized bruise on his forehead, half wrapping itself around his right eye. "What happened here?"

"I caught the hilt of a rapier with my face when the third fellow didn't want to wait his turn." D'Artagnan touched his fingers to the ugly looking bruise, prodding it gently. "It didn't break the skin, so it should heal just fine," he added with a shrug.

Aramis nodded his head slowly in agreement, but Porthos detected an odd look in the man's eyes.  _Guilt._  He recognized it instantly. Aramis felt guilty that they had almost become collateral damage because someone was after him. That was the reason he was on edge.

His friend didn't fear for  _his_  life; he feared for  _theirs_.

Bloody idiot. Porthos would have to keep an eye on him and talk some sense into him, if necessary.

"Are you ladies ready to move out?" Athos asked as he returned to the group. "I've retrieved the last of our weapons" – he returned Aramis's and Porthos's main gauche to their rightful owners – "and reloaded all of our firearms. And I also found this." Holding out Aramis's slightly crumpled hat, Athos managed to evoke a rueful smile from the marksman as he took it.

"If we make haste, we might still return to Paris before dark," Athos continued.

Nodding his agreement, d'Artagnan returned the supplies to Aramis's saddlebag before mounting his horse.

Athos followed suit.

Aramis carefully shrugged into his doublet and fastened his weapons belt before attempting to gain his feet.

Swaying for a moment, he closed his eyes briefly to regain his equilibrium. Porthos kept close but refrained from reaching out, choosing to let his friend work through it.

Only when Aramis appeared steady enough, did Porthos turn to mount his horse.

With movements too stiff and slow to remind of his usual graceful gait, Aramis swung himself into his saddle with obvious effort and a grunt of pain.

Porthos winced in sympathy.

Once mounted, his friend recovered quickly, however. With a brief nod to his three waiting companions, Aramis signaled that he was ready to leave.

Turning back onto the path together, they followed the Seine to Paris.

_TBC_

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_Thank you all for reading. Reviews are most welcome :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

_Athos POV_

The evening light had slowly faded as the last slivers of the sun had finally slipped behind a mountain range, relinquishing its hold on this day to let the darkness take over and turn dusk into night.

In a cloudless sky, the stars had been their steady companions and the full moon had helped guide their way for the last few league of the journey, since darkness had fallen.

Nonetheless, Athos heaved a sigh of relief when they finally guided their horses through the archway of the garrison gate, four sets of hooves echoing loudly on cobblestone. They made their way into the courtyard and came to a halt in front of the stables.

Athos dismounted with practiced ease and handed his reins to the stable boy who seemed to appear out of nowhere. A quick glance to the illuminated second story office window told him that Treville was still there, most likely waiting for them and the assurance of a successfully completed mission.

At least they would be able to deliver good news in that regard.

Turning his eyes away from the window and his thoughts away from the report he would have to give in a few minutes, Athos took a moment to study his three companions.

Porthos and d'Artagnan had dismounted as well, leaving their horses in the care of the stable boy who had returned to fetch them.

Porthos was slightly bending backward to stretch his obviously sore muscles, his movements extracting an audible pop from stiff joints. His large friend looked annoyed and tired, but otherwise none the worse for wear.

D'Artagnan was currently trying to hide a yawn behind the back of his hand. The young man had fought extremely well today, and Athos had been proud of the way he had handled himself both during and after battle. Now, however, his young friend looked weary and drained, the large bruise around his eye standing out harshly on his drawn face.

When his eyes came to rest on Aramis, he cringed inwardly. The man's face had seemingly lost all color quite some time ago. Only partly obscured by his hat, the stitches along his temple and the remaining dried blood and dirt gave him a ghostly appearance in the pale light of the moon.

Athos wasn't entirely certain how his friend had managed to hold himself in the saddle until now. He decided to credit that fact to the man's fierce determination and most of all, his stubbornness.

Aramis had spent the last hour of their journey painfully hunched over in his seat, one arm drawn tightly around his midsection while his breath seemingly refused to come as anything other than short bursts. And yet, no sound had ever made it past his lips, and his pace had never slowed.

The marksman was presently still seated on top of his horse; the reins held one handed in a tight-knuckled grip. Athos watched as Aramis's brow furrowed while evidently debating his next course of action.

His friend eyed the ground warily as if trying to decide whether dismounting his mare would land him on his feet or flat on his face.

He must have come to the conclusion that the former possibility would hold true. Keeping his right boot in the stirrup, Aramis swung his left leg over the horse's rear and with one hand on the reins and the other on the saddle, slowly lowered himself to the ground.

Clearly pleased with his accomplishment of remaining upright, Aramis turned away from his horse with a small but satisfied grin on his face. He lifted his head, only to find three pairs of eyes staring at him intently; Porthos standing only an arm's length away.

His brow furrowed again, this time in confusion and he asked slowly, almost petulantly, "What are you doing?"

With a sarcastic retort already on his lips, Athos opened his mouth to speak, when Porthos beat him to it, "Ah, nothin' much. Just makin' sure you don't fall on your face." The hand squeezing Aramis's shoulder belied the gentle mockery of Porthos's words.

"As truly touching as that sounds, I assure you, it is quite unnecessary. I am fine."

Athos's involuntary scoff drew Aramis's attention and put a scowl on his friends face.

He was suddenly grateful that sarcastic replies were never something he was in short supply of. "If you could see yourself in a mirror right now, you could fully appreciate how utterly ridiculous that sounds."

Before Aramis had a chance to argue any further, Athos persisted, letting just enough honest concern bleed through his words, "But all jest  _and_ bravado aside; do you need to see a physician before we speak to Treville?"

Aramis visibly deflated as he sighed deeply and held Athos's gaze while answering, "There is truly no need my friend. D'Artagnan's stitches are holding well, and there is nothing more that can be done for my ribs."

Athos accepted the statement with a curt nod as Aramis continued sheepishly, another grin appearing on his face, "I wouldn't mind a bottle of wine, however."

Clasping Aramis's shoulder, Athos replied, "After we've given our report, I will personally fetch you all the wine you desire." Turning his head to look at d'Artagnan and Porthos, he added, "I am sure we could all use some."

"Ah yes," d'Artagnan sighed, "and food; we could all use some food as well."

As they turned collectively to walk across the courtyard to the stairs, Porthos rested his hand on d'Artagnan's back, chuckling, "Don't worry. I promise we won't let you starve my friend."

Stopping in their tracks, they looked up when the office door creaked open, and Treville appeared on the landing of the balcony upstairs, a scowl on his face. "It's about damn time; I was starting to fear the worst."

Athos was still wondering how Treville could have known they had encountered trouble, when their Captain carried on, "What are you waiting for? We have much to discuss." Not waiting for a reply, but clearly expecting them to follow, Treville disappeared back into his office.

Athos briefly turned to his friends and was faced with three similar looks of confusion.

"That doesn't sound good," d'Artagnan decided.

He offered a quick shrug, "Only one way to find out." Turning back, Athos followed his captain up the stairs.

When the four of them filed into the office, they found Treville leaning against the edge of his desk, his arms crossed in front of him.

The captain's watchful gaze briefly settled on each of them, his eyes darkening considerably when he took in d'Artagnan's colorful array of bruising and Aramis's overall battered appearance. "What the hell happened to you?"

The question wasn't aimed at anyone in particular, so Athos took it upon himself to answer, "First off I would like to report that the king's missive was delivered without incident. We arrived at the Comte's chateau yesterday evening and left his grounds early this morning. He sends his regards to the king."

Treville nodded once. "That's good to hear. I will report to his majesty in the morning." Fixing Athos with an intense stare, he repeated his earlier inquiry, "Now tell me what the hell happened."

Athos nodded his head in compliance. "We were ambushed on the way back; about two hours away from the city as we were passing through the forest north of Paris. The set up was professional; paid mercenaries who were given written instructions to wait for us on  _that_  stretch of road. A total of thirteen men attacked us from two sides."

As he remembered the ambush, his gaze was drawn to Aramis and Athos realized that his friend's stoic facade was about to crumble as his frame had started to shake visibly with the effort of staying upright.

The remainder of the journey had evidently drained the last of his reserves, and Athos could feel the concern for his brother taking hold once more, his brow furrowing in the face of Aramis's deteriorating state.

He added to his report, trying to keep his voice level, "We discovered evidence that Aramis was the intended target" – Athos turned back to Treville and locked eyes with his captain –"and they damn near succeeded in completing their mission."

Clearly understanding his meaning, the captain's gaze darkened visibly as his eyes settled on Aramis, taking in the pallor of the other man's face, the long wound on the side of his head and the stiff posture in which he held himself.

Treville sighed deeply before he said, "so it is true then; another ghost has come back to haunt us."

"Captain?" Aramis was first to voice his confusion.

Treville pushed himself away from his desk, took hold of one of the extra chairs in the room and placed it next to Aramis. "Sit down son, before you fall over."

The relief Athos detected behind his friend's grateful expression did nothing to alleviate his concerns, as he watched Aramis slowly lower himself down into the chair. When he was settled, the marksman exhaled deeply and removed his hat, running one hand through his unruly curls.

"All of you, make yourselves comfortable, I have my own report to give." After his announcement, Treville turned to walk over to the cabinet at the back wall of his office, pulling out a bottle of brandy and five glasses.

As he started pouring the liquid, Porthos settled onto the windowsill, close to Aramis. D'Artagnan found another chair to sit down in and Athos leaned against the edge of the desk.

Each of them accepted their drink with gratitude, waiting for Treville to speak.

Their captain took a large swig of his brandy, almost as if he needed to gather his wits to tell the news evidently weighing heavily on him. Leaning back against the edge of his desk next to Athos and his eyes fixed to a spot on the floor, he began his report.

"Earlier this evening, there was a disturbance in one of the taverns, downtown. One of the patrons, a man named Albert, lost at cards to two of our men; Ballard and Francois." – Treville slowly raised his head – "Albert, evidently angered by his misfortune and heavily affected by drink, started to ramble about a plan in motion which would, and I quote 'teach the arrogant-sons of whores-musketeers a lesson'. He said that one of our own was marked for death."

Leaning forward with both elbows braced on his knees and his drink clasped in his hands, d'Artagnan used the captain's momentary pause to verbalize a thought. "You think this is related to the attack in the forest" – Turning his head, he briefly glanced at Aramis –"How can you be sure? For some reason we do seem to receive drunken death threats rather often."

Athos carefully studied the wary expression on his captain's face and correctly assumed, "There is more."

Treville nodded briefly before picking up the thread, "When Francois started to question Albert as to how he came by this information, he revealed that someone had been trying to recruit him for an assassination attempt on a musketeer. Of course he claimed not to be foolish enough to partake in any actions against the king's guard."

Treville paused again to take another swig of his brandy.

"Did they detain him for further questioning?" Porthos asked.

"No." Treville sighed deeply before continuing, "Albert is dead."

Athos felt his eyebrows draw together at the news, and a strange sense of foreboding suddenly spread through his system. He listened as Treville went on.

"Ballard attempted to detain Albert and escort him to the garrison. He reports that a shot was fired from a dark alleyway, shortly after they left the Tavern. Albert dropped dead instantly, and the shooter was able to escape."

Athos tilted his head sideways in question. "Did you have the dead man searched?"

"Ballard was about to search and deliver him to the morgue when the four of you returned from your little adventure. He should report to us shortly."

Treville's expression suddenly changed and Athos could detect a mixture of regret and sorrow on his face; two emotions Athos was completely unaccustomed to associate with the captain.

The feeling of dread Athos had started to experience earlier roared to a crescendo as Treville reluctantly spoke his next words.

"There was one other piece of information Albert revealed before Ballard escorted him out of the Tavern."Turning his head slightly, he locked eyes with Aramis. "He repeatedly said, 'Valois would have his revenge; no matter what'."

Aramis visibly tensed at hearing the name Treville had spoken, his voice a whisper of disbelief. "Valois?" Leaning forward in his chair, he braced his forearms on his legs.

When the marksman's breath started to quicken, Athos couldn't discern if it was due to his injuries or shock at hearing the news. He listened in confusion as Aramis continued, his voice raw. "It is not possible. Nicolas Valois is dead."

"I know that, son." Treville nodded slowly in confirmation. "How could I ever forget?"

Athos watched as another look passed between Aramis and Treville; a silent communication in a language nobody else in the room seemed to understand. He couldn't take it any longer.

"Who on earth is Nicolas Valois?"

After another heartbeat, Treville broke eye contact with Aramis and turned to Athos.

"Six years ago, Nicolas Valois was a musketeer in this regiment. Aramis, Marsac, Valois and another one of my soldiers- Charles, were tasked with the mission of escorting the king's cousin back to his home in Toulouse. Two days into the journey, after setting up camp," –

"Valois volunteered to take first watch and then killed Charles in his sleep. He slit his throat."

Aramis's voice was subdued and strangely devoid of emotion as he continued the story Treville had started, his glassy eyes holding a vacant expression as he stared at something in the distance only he could see.

"Valois betrayed us. He had been approached by a group of raiders days earlier and was paid handsomely in exchange for the details of our travel route and the promise to kill his brothers in their sleep. The plan was to kidnap the king's cousin for ransom."

"How did you survive?" D'Artagnan asked quietly.

Aramis managed a small smile. "Luck, perhaps. Or God's will. I am still unsure which. I woke up the second Valois leaned in to slit my throat." The smile disappeared completely and was replaced by a scowl with his next words. "I was able to fight him off and pierced his heart with his own blade."

"Five men arrived shortly thereafter to collect the king's cousin. Since the only musketeer they expected to find alive was Valois, Marsac and I were able to dispose of them fairly quickly. The king's cousin was unharmed, and we continued on to Toulouse the next day."

"Disposed of them quickly?" Treville raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You took a sword to the side and, if I recall correctly, were dead on your feet by the time you and Marsac finally returned to the garrison."

Having nothing left to say, Aramis just shrugged tiredly at the added detail to his story.

Porthos's face had seemingly grown darker the longer he had listened and with a strange mixture of anger and concern in his voice he asked, "How come we've never heard of this before?"

Treville replied somberly, "Valois was a traitor to his brother's and the worst disgrace this regiment had ever seen. Therefore, the king decided that it would be scandalous for people to learn that there was a conspirator among his own personal guard. No mission documents were ever filed, and only the King, the Cardinal, Aramis, Marsac and I ever knew the truth. As far as anyone else was concerned, Charles  _and_ Nicolas Valois died during the attack by the Raiders."

"I'd say it is safe to assume that someone else discovered the truth." Athos mused with a sideways glance in Aramis's direction. "The question is, how?"

If this entire mess had been set in motion because someone had learned what really happened to Valois and was trying to avenge him, then Treville had been right; another one of their ghosts had returned to haunt them.

Athos knew that just like himself, Aramis had his own nightmares to contend with. He hadn't known about this particular one, but it did not matter. Athos had noticed the shock on his friend's face at hearing Valois' name, as well as the sorrow in his eyes when he told his story. No matter what it might take, he would make certain that Aramis would not face this demon alone.

Before anyone else could comment on the facts that had just been revealed, a knock sounded at the door.

Treville turned his head towards the noise. "Enter."

The man who stepped into the office bore his usual stone gray leather doublet and his black hat sat firmly in place. Ballard had been with the regiment for several years and had proven himself to be a fine soldier.

At the moment, he was slightly out of breath and had a grim expression on his face. He bowed his head slightly in greeting before addressing Treville. "Captain."

"Ballard. What have you learned?"

The other Musketeer briefly glanced at Aramis, silently studying the battered man for a moment. Athos thought he detected a strange flash of emotion in Ballard's eyes but didn't have the chance to ponder it as the other man turned back to Treville and answered the question.

"I searched Albert before taking him to the morgue." He stepped forward, handing a folded piece of paper to Treville. "This note was the only thing of interest."

Treville unfolded the message and began to read aloud. "Should you change your mind, meet us at Duval's abandoned farmhouse south of the city gates after dark."

Ballard elaborated, "Before he was murdered, Albert said that someone tried to recruit him for an assassination. This farmhouse may have been the place they gathered before riding out to prepare the ambush in the forest."

"Makes sense," Porthos agreed. "It's worth lookin' into; we do need to get to the bottom of this. And fast."

Athos felt the same urgency that had apparently taken hold of Porthos. They needed answers before they were caught unawares again.

The captain addressed Ballard once more. "Anything else?"

"I had Francois search Albert's lodgings at the tavern, but he didn't turn up anything of interest. We also spoke to the tavern owner and apparently Albert did have the reputation of a man who can be hired for  _any_ type of work."

Treville nodded. "Thank you, Ballard. Well done."

Recognizing the Captain's obvious dismissal, Ballard briefly bowed his head once more and with another surreptitious glance at Aramis, he left the office.

Treville sighed deeply. "There is nothing more we can do tonight. Porthos, D'Artagnan, in the morning I want the two of you to ride out to Duval's farm and see if there is anything to find."

At Porthos's curt nod of acknowledgment, the Captain turned his head to Athos.

"I remember that Nicolas Valois had a son and that even during his time with the regiment, they had lodgings outside the garrison. If there is revenge to be had, close family members are always a good place to start. I will dig up the address, and you and Aramis can start your investigation there."

At the mention of close family members, Porthos produced the silver ring he had kept in his pocket. He handed it to Treville, and as the Captain slowly turned the small item in his fingers to study it, Porthos explained, "We retrieved this ring from one of the attackers in the forest. There is a V engraved on the inside."

"V for Valois?" Treville lifted his head. "Could it have been his son?"

"No," Aramis replied quickly. "The owner of this ring was too old to be Valois' son. He would have to be younger; D'Artagnan's age."

Treville nodded once. "Alright. At least now we know we're on the right trail. Tomorrow we will find out more."

Athos inclined his head in acknowledgment of the plan, but cautioned, "I would like to suggest we keep the details of our investigation secret for now. The perpetrators were somehow able to obtain undisclosed details of our mission to Rouen. Until we know  _how_  they came by their information, we need to remain vigilant."

Treville crossed his arms over his chest. "Agreed."

Athos's gaze was drawn to Aramis once more; his friend's voice having sounded absent and extremely tired when last he spoke. Feeling his brow furrow in concern, he silently watched the marksman.

Elbows still braced on his knees; Aramis supported his bowed head with one hand, his fingers rubbing slow circles on his forehead as if trying to rid himself of the persistent ache that resided there. His face was deathly pale.

Treville must have noticed the same, as his eyes were also fixed on the ailing soldier. He chose to conclude their meeting. "Alright. You should all go and eat something. I'm sure Serge has a warm stew waiting for you. Then get some rest. I get the feeling that tomorrow will be a long day."

His captain's voice must have penetrated the haze surely residing inside Aramis's head, because he started to rise slowly, seemingly unaware of the concerned looks aimed in his direction.

When he finally gained his feet, his knees buckled under his weight as his exhausted body seemed to protest the change in elevation. He would have hit the floor if it hadn't been for Porthos's quick reaction.

"Oi. Oh no, you don't." The larger man quickly seized Aramis's arm and for a moment supported most of his weight. "Steady now." Porthos locked eyes with his friend, silently communicating as they did so often. Only when Aramis gave a shaky nod, did Porthos release him, trusting that his friend would be able to stay upright by himself.

When d'Artagnan opened the door to leave, Aramis and Porthos followed closely behind. Athos was about to fall in line when Treville called him back. "Athos, a word."

He closed the door behind Porthos and looked back at his Captain expectantly.

"Make sure you keep an eye on him." Athos followed Treville's gaze and realized that he was watching Aramis through the window as the man carefully descended the stairs outside.

Sensing that the Captain hadn't finished, Athos remained silent.

"He will try not to show it, but having this particular nightmare resurface will take a toll on him. Being betrayed and almost murdered by Valois, his supposed brother, rattled him to the core." Treville turned his head away from the window and locked eyes with Athos as he continued. "And as we all know, that wasn't the only time he narrowly survived an assassination attempt in a forest."

Exhaling loudly, Treville concluded. "I strongly suspect that before this is over, Aramis will need to be reminded that this time he does not stand alone against the enemy, that this time he has true brothers fighting right alongside him."

Athos nodded his understanding. "I promise I will not let him forget."

He held Treville's gaze for another heartbeat, then turned and left the office to join his brothers for a late night supper and what he suspected to be the calm before the storm.

_TBC_

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_Thank you all for reading. I hope you enjoy where this is going. More action and hurt coming soon. Reviews are most welcome :)_


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

_Aramis POV_

When he first opened his sleep-heavy eyes and slowly leveled himself up in bed, he couldn't immediately identify what had woken him. A quick glance at the window confirmed that the black of the night had not yet surrendered to the new day and that the first precursors of dawn were only slowly starting to crawl across the sky to chase away the dark.

A twinge in his side reminded him of the marks he would carry for a while. Lifting the thin fabric of his shirt, he carefully touched one hand to the injured area and grimaced slightly as the light pressure caused discomfort.

He also registered a slowly throbbing ache behind his eyes, but the pain wasn't anywhere close to the debilitating thunderstorm that had raged in his head when they had finally returned to the garrison the evening prior.

Even though his tired body had been shrouded in pain from his injuries, he had been determined not to give into his exhaustion until after the meeting with Treville. He was fully aware, however, that he had not managed to fool anyone.

As the conversation had worn on, and the added burden of Treville's revelations had effectively sapped the very last of his remaining strength, he had been acutely aware of the increasingly worried glances aimed in his direction.

He did not blame them. He was worried as well; albeit the motive for his concern almost certainly differed slightly.

Nicolas Valois.

When Treville had uttered the name, his insides had twisted uncomfortably, and his heartbeat had quickened in reaction to the unbidden memory suddenly conjured in his mind's eye. Whenever he thought back to that night in the forest, he vividly relived the horrors of betrayal.

The moment he had opened his eyes and realized that he was about to be murdered by a fellow musketeer had been edged into his memory for countless nightmares to draw on. There had been no easy way for him to accept the fact that a brother would attempt to kill him in his sleep.

He had acted on instinct when he had seized the man's blade in a desperate struggle for his life and ultimately emerged victorious when he had sunk the dagger into Valois' chest.

Even though he had been deeply shaken by the other Musketeer's treachery, Aramis had never felt remorse for his actions that night. He had done what was necessary in order to stay alive and as a traitor to the crown and his brothers, Valois had most assuredly deserved to die.

That knowledge, however, did not make it any easier to come to terms with the fact that yet again his past had resurfaced and this time wasn't only trying to destroy him, but had almost caught his brothers in the crossfire as well.

And therein lay his concern.

He would not be able to forgive himself if either one of them came to harm because of his past actions; no matter how justified they may have been.

Aramis's mind returned to the present when he became aware of a noise coming from the floor. Identifying it as the sound that had woken him in the first place, he frowned into the darkness still shrouding his room and leaned over the edge of his bed.

Peering down, his eyebrows lifted in surprise when he recognized the shape of Porthos in the shadows of the floor next to him.

The larger man was shifting about in an obviously futile attempt to achieve a more comfortable position on the hard surface. His doublet had been removed and served as a makeshift pillow. Aramis's lips twitched into a smile, and he shook his head slowly in fond exasperation.

Scooting backward in bed to lean against the headboard and take some of the strain off his awfully sore ribs, he called into the half light, "Porthos?"

The other Musketeer came awake with a start and immediately leveled himself up onto his elbows, bleary eyes looking up at Aramis and his voice still heavy with sleep. "You're awake."

Aramis tilted his head to the side. "Your observation skills never seize to amaze." When Porthos's light chuckle reached his ears, he added, "Don't take this the wrong way my friend, but what  _are_ you doing here?"

Porthos sat up the rest of the way and leaned his back against the wall before answering with a shrug in his voice. "Somebody had to make sure you didn't pass out on the way to your quarters and it seems that I drew the short straw."

His friend's obvious attempt at levity drew a chuckle from Aramis in turn. "I do apologize if my somewhat fragile state was any cause for inconvenience. But as you can see, I was quite capable of reaching my destination unscathed and, therefore, it was completely unnecessary for you to sleep on the floor."

Absently rubbing at a kink in his neck, Porthos replied, his tone suddenly serious. "Yeah, well. When I came in, I found you tossin' and turnin' in your sleep and I wanted to make sure ..."

Apparently unwilling or unable to finish his sentence, Porthos lowered his head slightly, an audible sigh escaping him.

"Never mind." Scrubbing one hand over his face as if attempting to rid himself of a lingering nightmare, he locked eyes with Aramis in the half light and asked instead, "How are you doing now? That was quite the story you told last night."

Aramis studied the other man's features closely for a moment and recognized the honest concern in his dark eyes. Even in the half shadows of the early morning light he was able to identify it as the same look Porthos had held yesterday when he had helped Aramis recover from battle.

During all the years they had been friends; Aramis had learned to read the other man like an open book and he could generally foresee Porthos's reaction to certain stressors. The fact that Aramis's life was threatened now by an, as of yet, unidentified enemy, was not something Porthos would be able to take lightly.

For all of his strength and force on the battlefield, Porthos was considerably less comfortable with a threat that had yet to emerge from the shadows. His fierce loyalty and heart would constantly be urging him to act and carry out whatever deed necessary to protect those he held most dear; no matter the consequences to himself.

Unfortunately, neither one of them had any way of knowing how this particular situation would unfold; there was no course of action as of yet. And still, he felt the pressing need to at least try to dispel some of Porthos's concern.

"What happened with Nicolas Valois belongs in the past. And I won't lie; I would have very much preferred to keep it there. But seeing as there are those who seemingly seek revenge for my actions, I will do what I must in order to finish this once and for all."

He tried to convey the honesty behind his words as he carried on. "You do not need to worry about me my friend; when the time comes, I will be ready for whatever they have in store for me."

Aramis had not been prepared for the ferocity with which Porthos laid out his response. "What I'm worried about most, Aramis, is that it seems you might believe you're alone in this; that this is somehow  _your_  fight. And that in some misguided attempt to keep us safe, you're gonna do somethin' stupid."

He sometimes forgot that Porthos was able to read him just as well.

Tilting his head in concession to Porthos's statement, he replied, "Please believe me when I say that I am not on a suicide mission. I will simply be trying to keep the fallout of my actions contained to a minimum."

Judging by the low growl coming forth, Porthos did not agree with his statement. "That's the problem right there. You believe that this mess was caused by  _your_ actions, when in fact  _none_  of this is your doing. Valois tried to kill you six years ago, someone else is tryin' to kill you now and as far as I can tell the  _only_  thing you're guilty of is survivin' two assassination attempts."

Porthos pushed himself away from the wall and seized Aramis with an intensive stare. "Against all odds I might add."

Exhaling loudly, he continued in a softer tone, "No matter what happens today, I need you to believe that. And I need you to refrain from bein' your reckless self and accept our help. I have a bad feelin' about this entire situation."

Aramis understood Porthos's plight. He truly did. It was never easy to fear for the lives of those you care about most and have it remain uncertain whether or not you have the power to help safe them. He had been in that position himself many times, and he did not care for it. That being said, he was not willing to let Porthos convince him to make a promise he might not be able to keep.

He finally settled on a more neutral reply. "I share your apprehension, my friend. Unfortunately, it seems we have to wait for events to unfold until  _any_  action can be taken."

Leaning forward himself, he tried to convey his sincerity with a smile. "I can promise you however that I will try my hardest to keep my 'recklessness' confined to a minimum."

Porthos studied his eyes for a long moment, obviously searching for the truth. When he found what he was looking for he nodded slowly. "Alright. See that you keep that promise."

Rising to his feet, Porthos stepped in front of him and rested a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly. "Don't ever forget that we are brothers who fight for each other; no matter what."

His mind was strangely void of the words needed to properly express the gratitude he felt in the face of Porthos's steadfast friendship. In lieu of a suitable response, he lifted his hand to briefly cover the one already resting on his shoulder. Locking eyes with his friend he attempted to convey all he could not say.

Aramis was glad to see understanding in Porthos's eyes as the larger man nodded his head slowly. "Alright then."

After another moment, Aramis lowered his hand and pushed to his feet to stand in front of his friend. "Now, let us go and see what's for breakfast. No matter what else this day may bring, it will be easier to bear on a full stomach."

Porthos's grin signaled his agreement. "Aye. I'm starvin'. Lead the way."

As he pulled on his boots and snatched his doublet off the back of the chair, Aramis fervently hoped that the sense of foreboding he felt was only conjured by his overactive mind and was not in fact a true indication for what was yet to come.

…

The house Aramis and Athos were looking for was located at the entrance of a narrow alley way, just around the corner from the marketplace.

At this early hour the market only just came to live and was still devoid of its usual bustle. Walking quickly across the cobblestone, Aramis observed several vendors prepare their carts of fresh produce, meats, and delicious smelling baked goods in anticipation of the populace who would surely arrive within the hour and turn this place into a hub of activity.

Rounding the corner into the alley, Aramis and Athos came to stand in front of the small two-story stone building that had once been the home of Nicolas Valois and his son Bernard.

Aramis could feel his friend's gaze on him, and he turned his head away from the house to lock eyes with Athos.

"Let us hope we find some answers here." Athos's voice was quiet and earnest.

He didn't wait for Aramis's reply before lifting his hand to rasp his knuckles against the old wooden frame.

As they waited for the door to be answered, Aramis spared a moment's thought for Porthos and d'Artagnan. His other two friends had left the garrison on horseback before the sun had even fully risen; riding out to the abandoned farmhouse mentioned in the note they had recovered.

This farmhouse, which had evidently served as the meeting place for the mercenaries who had attacked them in the forest, was about a half hour's ride outside of Paris. Porthos and d'Artagnan should have reached it by now if they hadn't been delayed.

Aramis's sense of dread for coming events still had not abated; he felt like he was missing a vital piece of information, like he wasn't able to grasp the big picture as of yet. His insides twisted into a painful knot when he thought of the fact that his lack of awareness might proof deadly.

His train of thought was interrupted when the door in front of them finally opened with a groan to reveal an elderly woman in a nightgown. Her unruly gray hair was tied back in a messy bun, and she wore a scowl on her face.

"Who on earth would disturb an honest woman at the crack ass of dawn?"

Aramis and Athos exchanged a quick look of bewilderment accompanied by raised eyebrows.

Recovering quickly, Aramis drew his hat and held it to his chest as he replied, "The King's Musketeers, Madame." Bowing his head briefly for charming effect, he added, "My sincere apologies for the early morning intrusion, but we are here on urgent business."

Studying them closely with a frown still firmly in place, the woman replied, "King's Musketeers you say? What urgent business could you possibly have at my door, especially at this hour?"

"We were hoping you would remember two people who used to live here about six years ago," Athos said. "Another Musketeer called Nicolas Valois and his son."

"Anything you could tell us about the possible whereabouts of Valois' son Bernard would be greatly appreciated, Madame." Aramis flashed his most dashing smile. "And may I inquire your name?"

The elderly lady eyed Aramis skeptically for a moment before responding, "The name is Beatrice. And you think you're extremely charming, don't you?" She ignored Athos's half choked sound of laughter and Aramis's scowl and continued, "The other one thought he could charm the information out of me as well."

Athos sobered immediately. "The other one?"

"Yes, the other musketeer who came by a couple of months back, asking all the same questions about Valois and his boy." She lowered her voice almost conspiratorially, "of course I knew he wasn't a _real_  musketeer; at least not anymore." The woman pointed at Athos's pauldron. "He didn't have one of them fancy uniforms like you do."

At Athos's raised eyebrow, she shrugged her shoulders, "I notice things."

"Might you remember his name?" Aramis inquired.

His mind was reeling. This was a part of the elusive big picture, and he desperately needed to find the next piece. Who would pretend to be a Musketeer and ask this woman about Valois' son's whereabouts? She said he came by a couple of months ago. The only thing he immediately recalled from two months back was the visit from the Duke of Savoy and…

Aramis blanched as the realization hit him, and he was suddenly able to answer his question himself.

"Marsac."

His voice was but a whisper as there suddenly didn't seem to be enough air in his lungs to make a proper sound.

Beatrice nodded. "Yes, that was it. Marsac. Even though I knew he was no musketeer, I still felt inclined to help him. He had a certain look in his eye, you know. Like he was lost and desperate."

Observing Aramis closely for a moment, she added with a frown, "You are, in fact imitating his expression rather well at the moment."

At her comment, Aramis quickly schooled his features and forced his anxiety down. "Could you tell us what you told him? About Valois?"

"Very well." – Beatrice sighed dramatically – "Nicolas and his son Bernard used to rent the apartment upstairs. After his father died in the line of duty, the boy went to live with one of his two uncles. That is really all I can tell you."

"Do you happen to know where the uncle lives?" Aramis asked.

"No, I don't." She cast her eyes downwards for a moment, before lifting her finger and starting to shake it in Aramis's direction as if suddenly remembering something important. "But your friend did. Marsac? He said he would know the way from here. You should ask him."

Aramis's heart sank. He glanced over to lock eyes with Athos and a look of understanding passed between them. If Marsac had been looking for Bernard and had found him at his uncle's house, then it stood to reason that he had been the one to tell the Valois family what had truly transpired in the forest six years ago.

He must have been the one to tell them  _who_ had killed Nicolas Valois.

_Why on earth_ Marsac had felt the need to divulge that information would most likely remain a mystery, however, seeing as after all, Marsac was dead.

It was possible that his former friend had attempted some sort of misguided penance. Marsac had returned to Paris two months ago to assassinate the Duke of Savoy, and he had known that this particular mission would most likely be his last undertaking.

If he had felt cross about the way Bernard Valois had been lied to after his father's death, Marsac might have tried to atone for his perceived sins by telling the truth.

Of course Marsac hadn't completely been in his right mind at the time and by telling the truth, he had inadvertently made Aramis the target of a family revenge plot. As if leaving him to die in a snowy landscape with twenty dead musketeers hadn't been enough.

Aramis looked back at Beatrice and bowed his head slightly. "Thank you very much, Madame. You have been most helpful."

"One last question, if I may," Athos interjected. At the women's nod, the older musketeer continued, "Were you aware of any money troubles Nicolas Valois may have had?"

Aramis frowned for a moment before realizing what his friend was doing. The idea that  _any_ musketeer would betray his brothers in the horrific manner Valois had, was inconceivable to Athos; a man who would surely die before letting any harm come to those he cared about most. Athos was searching for Valois' motive.

"Now that you mention it, he was late paying his rent a few times. Very late" – Beatrice lowered her voice again – "I think he liked the gambling."

After a moment, the woman tilted her head and added, "But I do remember he paid up in the end. As a matter of fact; shortly before he died, he paid everything he owed in a nice large sum."

"I'm sure he did." Athos said; his voice grim. "Thank you again, Madame, your help is very much appreciated."

Beatrice nodded with a smile on her face and closed the door.

Aramis noted that Athos had already turned to leave. Replacing his hat where it belonged, he commented with a bitter edge to his voice, "Well, that has certainly been very informative."

When no reply was forthcoming, he turned to face Athos and noticed the other musketeer's suddenly stiff posture and fierce scowl. Turning around the rest of the way and following Athos's line of sight he found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

The weapon aiming reliably at Aramis's chest was held in a tight-knuckled grip; the man attached to it standing only feet away. His dark leathers allowed him to stay mostly concealed in the shadows of the building across the way.

Advancing a few steps in their direction, the man's aim was carefully maintained and did not waver. When he left the shadows and stepped out into the sun, Aramis could see the unadulterated hatred reflecting in his eyes. It was the same expression as held by the man who had almost succeeded in killing Aramis the day prior.

It was not only the expression that was familiar, however; but the eyes as well.

Aramis was sure of it; this man was another member of the Valois family. When noting that he also seemed too old to be Nic Valois' son, Aramis recalled what Beatrice had said,  _'the boy went to live with one of his two uncles_.'

As the truth took shape in his mind, Aramis stated with confidence, "You are one of Nicolas Valois' brothers."

The man's answer was a quiet growl. "Connecting the dots, are we?" The dangerous glint in his eyes grew more intense as he continued, "I am in fact the last of three brothers; the only one who hasn't died by your hand." – He raised the pistol threateningly by just a fraction – "I am also the one who will spell your doom."

Next to him, Athos suddenly stepped forward and casually remarked, "It seems that one of your brothers was a traitor of the worst kind while the other one did not leave us much choice. And you are mistaken," – Athos's voice suddenly changed to a dangerous rumble – " _I_  killed your second brother yesterday. I shot him in the back and then I took his silver ring off of his dead body."

" _Athos."_ Aramis hissed the quiet warning. He knew what his friend was trying to do, and he could not allow it.

All emotion suddenly seemed to drain from the man's face, and the searing hatred that had burned in his dark eyes was replaced with an empty stare, his expression bordering on madness. "Do you honestly believe you can bait me with your words? That somehow you can cause me more pain than I already feel in the face of all that I have lost?"

His intense gaze settled on Aramis once more and he tilted his head before continuing with the same detached voice, "It does not matter now because you will understand soon enough. In light of what happened yesterday, we decided to respond in kind before we kill you. An eye for an eye."

The words spoken had Aramis's dread levels rise tenfold. It was as if his insides were seized in a tight grip, while his heart rate sped up exponentially. Evidently his heart had already understood what his ears had yet to listen to.

"The two musketeers who rode out to the farm this morning should be dead by now, and when you lay eyes on their lifeless bodies, you will share the excruciating agony that threatens to drown you when faced with the loss of your brothers." – The trajectory of the pistol suddenly changed – "At least one of you will."

Aramis's system was infused with adrenaline when the pistol started moving in Athos's direction. Out of the corner of his eye he registered that his friend made to draw his own weapon, but instantly realized that Athos would be too late.

Aramis had a split second to make a decision and was already in motion before the firearm fully settled on his friend's chest. The pistol fire echoed through the narrow alleyway just as his body connected with Athos's full force, propelling them both to the ground.

His vision darkened around the edges when the force of the impact set a fire alight inside his already injured ribcage.

The dull thud his ears had registered even through the pain, had him fighting to clear his vision in order to check on Athos.

First however he needed to neutralize the immediate threat. Aramis leveled himself off of Athos's motionless body and turned his head towards Valois. Realizing the man was advancing on their position with a drawn rapier, Aramis scrambled to pull his pistol free of his weapons belt.

He was about to take aim when Valois suddenly stopped his forward movement and turned his head toward the entrance of the alley. The pistol fire had drawn a small group of onlookers who had come to investigate the commotion.

Faced with witnesses Valois quickly sheathed his sword and fled down the path, away from the marketplace.

Aramis was momentarily torn between the need to chase after the enemy and the necessity of ensuring Athos's safety.

In the end, he tore his gaze away from Valois' retreating form and ran a practiced eye over his friend's body. The dull sound he had registered had been Athos's head connecting with the cobblestone beneath them; which would explain the blood matting his friend's hair as well as his unconscious state. He connected two fingers with the pulse point on Athos's throat, relieved to find it steady and strong.

Next he searched his friend's torso. Aramis was momentarily alarmed when he found traces of blood staining the leather on Athos's upper chest, until he realized there was no wound to account for the sticky substance.

Still confused at the fact, he lifted his head when he heard a familiar voice call his name, "Aramis?"

Amidst the group of onlookers, he found a familiar face to match the voice.

_Constance_.

He exhaled heavily in relief.

As she made her way over to stand next to him, he quickly looked over his shoulder in the other direction just in time to see Valois round the corner at the end of the alley. Aramis knew the next side street was a dead end, though. Valois had nowhere to go.

"Aramis, what happened?"

He turned back to Constance while rising to his feet. Ignoring her question, he posed one of his own. "Will you stay with him?"

Her voice started to have a frantic edge to it when she replied, "And what exactly will you be doing?" – Constance's gaze settled on his right arm – "You're bleeding."

Following her line of sight, his brow creased in a frown before finally noticing the wound in his bicep. The escaping blood had already stained a good portion of his leathers.  _Ah._ That explained a few things.

At first glance, it looked like the ball had entered from the side, torn through his muscle and exited again. Mercifully he did not feel much of anything at the moment, only a strange sort of numbness. He knew the pain would come soon enough.

Regardless, he was not willing to delay any longer, and he needed her to understand. Taking a step into her personal space he placed both of his hands on her shoulders and locked his intense gaze onto hers; imploring her to listen, "Constance, please. Will you stay with him until he wakes?"

After searching his eyes for a moment, she broke eye contact and settled her gaze on Athos's prone form. "Of course," she said. "You know I will."

That was all he needed to hear. Spinning around, he set off at a dead run towards the corner of the alley where he had watched Valois disappear.

When he pulled the pistol from his belt with his right, a disturbing thought crossed his mind.

Even though he knew this city as well as his quarters at the garrison, and he was certain that the turn Valois had taken led to a dead end, there was still the possibility he had found another way out. Maybe he had managed to scale the wall at the far end, or perhaps he had broken into one of the houses along the way only to exit through a window on the other side.

He was still thinking of the possibilities when he rounded the corner at full speed. The one thing he did not expect was the flying dagger approaching his chest at great velocity as soon as he made the turn.

Leaping sideways without conscious thought, he tugged his head under his chest and rolled over his shoulder to come back up in a crouch. He quickly scanned the area in front of him to locate Valois. Finding the man only a few yards ahead, Aramis did not waste any time and raised his pistol.

He was just about to take the shot when his arm started to shake as his muscles betrayed him. For the first time since the ball had entered his skin, he felt the searing hot pain of his injury, and the intensity of it left him gasping.

Evidently the short reprieve he had been granted had come to an end.

Pulling the trigger regardless, Aramis watched with bated breath as the ball buried itself into Valois' left shoulder, tearing a ragged scream from the man's throat.

As he registered his failure to deliver a kill shot Aramis's eyes briefly closed of their own accord, a shaky breath escaping him. Considering the circumstances, however, he supposed he was lucky he hadn't missed entirely and that at the very least, the playing field had now been leveled.

Attempting to rise from his crouched position took a lot more effort than it should, and when he finally gained his feet, he felt his spent pistol slip from his lax grip. Looking down briefly, he realized that his blood stained the cobblestone next to him where the substance had been dripping steadily from his fingers.

A sensation akin to liquid fire emanated from the ragged hole in his arm and spread its agonizing tendrils all the way down to his finger tips. He recognized with startling clarity that attempting to use the injured limb during the impending battle would likely spell his doom.

Therefore, he decided to count himself fortunate that the life of a soldier dictated for him to be a proficient swordfighter with both of the arms he had been given.

Aramis tightly wrapped his left hand around the hilt of his rapier, pulled it free of its sheath and advanced on Valois' position with all the confidence he could muster.

The other man had seemingly recovered sufficiently to draw his own sword and appeared more than willing to meet Aramis half way.

No words were exchanged. The mad expression on Valois' face told him all he needed to know.

This would be a fight to the death.

Their swords clashed in the middle of the alleyway, the grating sound of scraping steel resonating through Aramis's body. It was his intend to use the first few strikes and parries to assess his opponent's skill.

Driving his rapier hard towards Valois' ribs, he kept coming in a flurry of movement, intend and lethal. The man's parrying maneuvers did speak of proficiency and training, yet they appeared to be slightly hampered and stilted by his injury.

As were his own he knew.

Continuing to trade vicious thrusts and blows, each of them tried desperately to gain the upper hand.

The next arching swing of his weapon was parried easily by Valois' blade and the force of the connection had Aramis grit his teeth in order to stand his ground.

His strength was fading fast.

Valois pushed Aramis's rapier aside with a circular motion of his sword. Attempting to press his perceived advantage, his opponent delivered a brutal strike aimed at Aramis's head.

Quickly dodging the blade by bending backward and spinning sideways to circle around Valois, Aramis viciously swung his blade at a downward angle and connected harshly with the man's ribs.

He heard the leather rip under the edge of his sword and felt his blade slice into the flesh beneath.

He had drawn first blood.

A blood-curdling scream tore free of his adversary and Aramis watched as Valois stumbled forward a step, clutching one hand to his injured side.

When his opponent spun back to face him once more, his eyes had a crazed look about them and his face bore an angry snarl. In an obvious bout of rage Valois expelled a furious roar. Lifting his sword overhead, he swung it in a powerful downward motion, evidently attempting to split Aramis in two.

He brought his sword up just in time to block the furious attack, the force behind it echoing painfully through his tired body.

In his frenzy Valois continued to use his weapon like a sledgehammer; drawing it back quickly only to bring down another bone-jarring blow onto Aramis's waning defenses.

And another.

And another.

Badly reeling from the sheer force and mad energy behind the attack, Aramis seemed unable to escape the raging fury currently raining down on him. His left arm and only defense was tiring quickly while his body screamed at him with every grating blow of Valois' sword against his.

Aramis's injured arm was engulfed in flames, his ribs were screaming at him in protest, and his head was throbbing madly in tandem with his furious heartbeat.

Valois delivered one more grating strike against Aramis's rapier, the strength of which forced his tired limbs to surrender at last. As his knees gave out, he forcefully hit the ground at the same time his sword was finally knocked free of his hand, clattering loudly onto cobblestone.

Panting hard but stubbornly refusing to let the pain he was in reflect on his face, he looked up at Valois and raised his chin defiantly.

His opponent took one step forward to stand directly in front of Aramis, a feral grin distorting his features.

On his knees and waiting for the lethal blow that would have him depart from this world, an unexpected thought penetrated the pain.

_Porthos._

Up to this point, he had not allowed himself to think of his friends and whether or not Valois had been truthful about their possible demise.

He remembered the words Porthos had spoken that morning,  _'Don't ever forget that we're brothers who fight for each other; no matter what.'_

That statement went both ways he knew.

There was a chance that Porthos and d'Artagnan were still alive. And as long as there was a chance, he would fight for them.

But in order to do so he had to survive himself; not perish in some random back alley, kneeling in front of a mad man.

Watching as Valois slowly raised his sword one last time to deliver the final strike, Aramis decided that he could not and would not die this day. Not in this fashion. Not alone.

Not ever alone.

_We are brothers who fight for each other._

_All for one._

"This is for what you have done," Valois hissed, his sword now swiftly descending at an arch towards Aramis's neck. "This is for my brothers."

Ducking low just in time, he could hear Valois' blade hiss through the air overhead. He brought up his left arm to seize his opponent's wrist in a tight-knuckled grip to render his sword useless and simultaneously reached behind him with his right to firmly grasp the hilt of his main gauche with blood covered fingers.

Freeing the weapon quickly from its sheath he viciously thrust the blade upwards to bury it deep in Valois' stomach.

Valois froze.

Not releasing his hold on the hilt of his dagger, Aramis got one foot underneath him and pushed off the ground.

Standing face to face with his adversary, he locked eyes with the man and whispered, "And this is for  _my_ brothers."

_One for all._

He pushed the blade deeper still and twisted it sideways. When Valois's eyes surrendered their madness to the great beyond and his last breath left his body, Aramis pulled his weapon free and watched his enemy collapse in a heap before him.

He breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

When he attempted to back away from Valois' lifeless form he started to sway unexpectedly and had to close his eyes against the sudden dizziness that assaulted him.

Staggering badly, he was taken aback by his lack of equilibrium and almost didn't notice that his main gauche slipped out of his blood slick fingers. Looking down the length of his arm he noted visible tremors running through it.

He also took in the expanse of dark stains covering his leathers.

He was losing too much blood.

Bringing up his left hand, Aramis covered the wound in a feeble attempt to stem the flow. The moderate amount of pressure he exerted had him gasping in reaction to the burning pain just as his vision grayed around the edges.

An angry growl emanated from his throat. There was no time for him to be weak.

He closed his eyes again and breathed deeply; desperately trying to focus his muddled thoughts to regain some semblance of balance and control.

He needed to see if Athos was alright.

They needed to go after Porthos and d'Artagnan.

Unfortunately, it was no use.

When the fog inside his head was joined by the sound of his blood rushing through his ears, he felt himself listing dangerously to one side.

"Aramis?" the voice held a certain sense of urgency as it penetrated the haze in which he was currently trapped.

Even in his present state he recognized it instantly.

_Athos._

He forced his heavy lids open to reveal a blurred version of his friend advancing quickly.

When his body's need to shut down finally overcame his stubbornness to hold on, he briefly wondered if Athos would be fast enough to catch him.

He barely felt his knees buckle when he finally surrendered to the waiting darkness.

_TBC_

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_Thank you for reading. Reviews are most welcome :)_


	5. Chapter 5

_A huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited and followed this story so far :)_

_Here is the next chapter, I hope you enjoy._

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_Chapter 5_

_D'Artagnan POV_

Situated in a valley and surrounded on two sides by gentle slopes and hills, the Duval family farm had been standing vacant since a tragic fire had ravaged the main building several years prior, and Monsieur and Madame Duval had perished in the flames.

Nobody had come to claim the property, and the outlying buildings and stables had since fallen into disrepair.

Porthos and d'Artagnan had arrived at the outskirts of the Duval farm land thirty minutes past and had spent the time on a ridge bordering the south side of the property, observing the farm for any untoward activity.

The higher ground had allowed them to confirm that the farmyard was deserted; the stables were empty, and no activity could be detected behind the dirty glass windows of the remaining buildings.

Now slowly descending the gentle slope that would lead them to the entrance of the farmyard, d'Artagnan glanced at the larger musketeer riding next to him and not for the first time noted his grim expression and the tense set of his jaw.

Porthos had been on edge since they had left the garrison, leaving Aramis and Athos behind to conduct their investigation.

This mission was personal to all of them; d'Artagnan included. During the relatively short time he had been part of this brotherhood and had earned the friendship of these men who had come to mean so much to him, he had learned that a threat to one would be answered with the wrath of all.

Looking at Porthos now, there was no doubt in d'Artagnan's mind that his friend would stop at nothing to ensure Aramis's safety and may it require him to walk straight into hell and fight the devil himself.

D'Artagnan was prepared to follow.

Riding into the farmyard, d'Artagnan studied the burnt out ruins of the main building to their left, trying to imagine the fiery blaze that would have been necessary to consume a sturdy structure so completely.

The inferno at Athos's Chateau came to mind unbidden, and he briefly shuddered at the memory of pulling the older musketeer from the flames.

Quickly banishing the thought from his mind, he pried his eyes from the scarce remains of the farmhouse and settled his wandering gaze on the two remaining buildings on his right, across the yard. Just as the barn and stables in front of them, the two smaller structures to the right had been spared by the fire, albeit their poor condition spoke of years of neglect.

Pulling his reins and halting his horse in front of the barn, d'Artagnan swung his leg over the animal's rear to dismount quickly, planting both feet on the ground with a thud.

On his left Porthos followed suit before announcing, "We'll start with one of those buildings over there. See which one was the meetin' place for those blasted mercenaries and if they left anythin' for us to find."

D'Artagnan nodded his agreement, "lead the way."

The structure Porthos had set his sights on was the one closest to the stables and once upon a time, would have probably held the accommodations for stable hands and farm workers.

Remaining vigilant of his surroundings, d'Artagnan experienced an ever-growing sense of dread as they quickly closed the distance to the building. Something didn't feel quite right, although he was unable to detect any obvious reason for his unease.

There had been no signs of movement and their surroundings remained quiet.

Then his gaze settled on a disturbance on the ground.

"Porthos," his warning was hushed but urgent.

The older musketeer stopped in his tracks immediately and turned to face him with a questioning look in his eyes.

Indicating the ground before him with a tilt of his head, d'Artagnan continued in a low voice, "Bootprints. Judging by their condition, I'd say they were left no longer than a few hours ago."

Porthos's brow furrowed at the implication. "That means someone was here  _after_  we were ambushed in the forest."

D'Artagnan slowly nodded. "And the tracks don't lead anywhere; I only see two prints." – Looking up, he carefully let his gaze roam over the immediate area once more, his hand instinctively settling on the hilt of his rapier. – "which makes me think that someone attempted to cover their trail."

No sooner did he finish his sentence, did they suddenly find themselves surrounded on three sides.

Two men emerged from the building they had been heading toward, their swords drawn.

Another two appeared from inside the barn to their left.

And finally two more walked up behind them, having been concealed by the last standing wall of the burnt out farmhouse.

D'Artagnan cursed under his breath before declaring in a bitter tone, "Almost looks like someone has been waiting for us."

Porthos's answering growl emanated from deep within his throat. "Keeps on happenin', don't it?" – He slowly unsheathed his broadsword as the circle of men drew tighter around them – "we should find out why that is."

Turning to stand back to back with Porthos to provide themselves mutual cover, d'Artagnan swiftly drew his rapier with his right and gripped his parrying dagger with his left. "What's our plan?" – He briefly looked over his shoulder to where he knew Porthos to be – "I truly hope there is a plan."

"'Course there is," his friend answered easily. "We do as much damage as we can."

D'Artagnan tilted his head in contemplation. "Yeah, alright. I like it."

Widening his stance and angling his rapier in front of him to better defend his position, he waited for the inevitable attack; his body was brimming with anticipation for battle.

The six men had formed a perfect circle around them, but so far still kept a distance of a few yards. Keeping their formation tight, they evidently waited for an opening.

Behind him, he heard Porthos's growl of a challenge, "Come on then. Are you lot waitin' on a written invitation?"

The taunt had the desired effect.

The first strike came from the front, and d'Artagnan's rapier parried the broadsword easily, advancing just a step to put more force behind his answering blow.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed the glint of a second blade rapidly descending on him in a steep arch. Raising his parrying dagger to ward off the attack, he managed to catch the blade and divert the weapon's trajectory by a twist of his arm.

Refusing to be overrun, d'Artagnan drew his leg in and viciously drove his boot into the second man's stomach, forcing him back.

Judging by the rapid sounds of clashing metal behind him, Porthos was engaged in a fierce battle of his own. Awareness struck that only two men seemed to focus on him, which lead to the conclusion that Porthos more than likely had to content with four attackers at once.

There was not a moment to spare however to chance a glance at Porthos's fate as the first man drove his sword point forward quickly, forcing him to focus solely on the battle at hand.

D'Artagnan jerked to the side, avoiding the cutting edge of the weapon. The blade meant for his ribcage whizzed past in a blur of steel. He quickly spun around his opponent and connected his rapier with the man's back, slicing deeply through the leather and forcing a ragged scream from his throat.

D'Artagnan watched as his opponent drunkenly stumbled forward before collapsing in a heap on the ground. In the flurry of activity, however, he had briefly lost track of his second attacker and paid the price for his lack of awareness when a glint of metal swung past his peripheral vision.

Trying to scramble out of the way, he belatedly realized that it was too late to dodge the winding object.

He felt a jarring impact on his side as the metal chain viciously struck, the force of the blow taking his breath away. He went down hard onto one knee, barely managing to brace himself on the ground with one hand to keep from collapsing completely.

D'Artagnan looked up in time to see the chain being lifted again in an upward trajectory.

He needed to move. Now.

Attempting to disregard the stinging pain coursing through his body he drew his dagger far back and hurled the weapon in a brutal overhead throw, catching the man in the hollow of his throat.

The chain clattered to the ground as it slipped out of his opponent's hand; the action signaling that his body was about to shut down. The man stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief for a moment, before his legs crumbled underneath him.

Panting hard and grimacing at the fire running down his side, d'Artagnan pushed to his feet with effort.

He suppressed his aches and all other worries that may have crossed his mind, focusing on the one thing that mattered at this moment.

Porthos.

Turning towards the battle still raging behind him, it took d'Artagnan but a moment to assess the situation.

Two lifeless bodies on the ground.

His friend fighting a desperate battle on two fronts.

Trapped in between two skilled opponents who would not grant him a reprieve, Porthos was kept too busy parrying the endless flurry of attacks to initiate any counters of his own.

A deep and sluggishly bleeding gash marred the musketeer's shoulder, and another shallower cut was visible on his chest.

Drawing his pistol at once, d'Artagnan did not hesitate but aimed swiftly and pulled the trigger.

With the report of his weapon echoing loudly, the ball whizzed past Porthos and struck home in the center of his target's chest.

The man's arm and sword arrested in mid-air; the downward strike towards Porthos's neck destined to remain incomplete as the swordsman looked down on himself in shock to watch his lifeblood spread in an ever growing circle across his leathers. He finally collapsed in a heap.

D'Artagnan watched as Porthos advanced on the last man standing, confidence shining in his dark eyes as he twirled his shianova in a circle with a twist of his wrist. Raising his weapon, Porthos was ready to execute a final thrust with his sword…

And that's when it happened.

A pistol was fired into the air, immediately drawing their attention; but even more so did the bellowing voice that followed the weapon's report, "That's enough."

That voice. He  _knew_  that voice.

Still looking in Porthos's direction, D'Artagnan realized that his friend had halted his forward movement and lowered his sword. The last opponent retreated backward slowly, but Porthos paid him no heed as he stared past d'Artagnan at something or someone in obvious disbelief.

D'Artagnan turned around slowly, trepidation over what he would find spreading through his system.

When his eyes settled on the figure standing before him, his blood ran cold.

Ballard.

"I wondered beforehand how many men it would require exactly, to take the two of you down. Obviously I miscalculated, but it is no matter. I brought reinforcements."

The musketeer was flanked by three men to his right and another three to his left, every single one of them steadily aiming their pistols at Porthos and d'Artagnan.

"So it's you then." Porthos's voice was an angry growl and his face a mask of mad fury. "You're the one who sold us out. You're –"

"I'm the son of Nicolas Valois, yes." Ballard advanced a few steps in their direction before continuing, "And this is my attempt to achieve justice for my father."

Having recovered sufficiently from the shock of the truth playing out in front of him, d'Artagnan found his voice, "Justice? Your father was a traitor to the crown  _and_  his brothers."

Ballard's head whipped around to face him in anger. "Lies. My father was an honorable man who did what he had to do to provide for his family.

"After his death, I joined the musketeers to honor his memory. I changed my name to ensure I would be accepted into the regiment on merit alone. I wanted to do him proud.

"Now imagine my rage when I learned what truly transpired the night my father died; that the brotherhood I so desperately wanted to be a part of covered up the true circumstances of his death and that in fact he died by the hand of another musketeer."

D'Artagnan was painfully aware that Porthos was only scarcely controlling his temper at this point. Despite the pistols aimed in their direction, Porthos raised his voice and fiercely challenged Ballard's version of the truth.

"Your old man attempted to murder his comrades in their sleep! He was a traitor of the nastiest sort and deserved much worse than 'e got." Porthos's face distorted in anger and his next words were full of loathing, "As do you."

Ballard clenched and unclenched his fists several times before replying in a strangely measured tone, "It does not matter what you believe. Aramis killed my father and now he will pay the price for his actions." The treacherous musketeer advanced another few steps and seized Porthos with a crazed stare.

His next words chilled d'Artagnan to his core.

"Athos is surely dead by now, my uncle André saw to that. And when Aramis's grief lowers his guard he will inevitably come looking for you." Ballard raised his chin challengingly and his eyes held a gleam of madness. "After watching me take you and the whelp apart he will certainly wish he was dead, and I will be happy to oblige."

D'Artagnan lost control over his temper at the revelation.

So far his fury and anger at the traitor before him had quietly bubbled underneath the surface and had been controlled by the knowledge that no matter how much hatred they held for Ballard, they could not win this fight. Not right now; not with six pistols against them, ready to fire at a moment's notice.

Now however, faced with the very real possibility of Athos's death and the pure malevolence of the plan revealed, he lost his tenuous hold on his rage as true fear for his friends viciously clawed at his heart.

With a furious roar of anger, he charged at Ballard.

When he came within arm's reach, d'Artagnan seized the man's throat in a vice-like grip, squeezing tightly.

At once Porthos appeared next to him, connecting the barrel of his pistol to Ballard's forehead, a murderous gleam in his eyes.

The traitor made no move to defend himself.

Staring at them with a gaze born of pure hatred, Ballard attempted to speak around the steady pressure on his windpipe, "Go ahead. If you kill me, you'll be dead before my body even hits the ground." – As if on cue the six men surrounding them stepped closer, repositioning their aim threateningly. – "These men were handsomely paid and received very precise instructions."

Breathing harshly with the effort of restraint, it took all of d'Artagnan's self-control not to squeeze the life out of the man before him.

However, when logic and reason once again attempted to override his wrath, d'Artagnan flicked his gaze in Porthos's direction, waiting for a cue from his friend and ready to defer to his judgment on how to proceed.

Porthos's face remained frozen in anger, and the pistol attached to Ballard's forehead did not waver.

Due to the steady pressure inflicted on his throat, Ballard's voice had a tortured quality to it when next he spoke.

"You know Aramis better than anyone. You tell me. What will it do to him when he finds both of you dead?"

D'Artagnan understood the internal war he saw raging behind Porthos's dark and hate filled eyes. He understood all too well because he felt the same.

The overwhelming desire to serve justice and kill the man before them was only secondary to the need of doing right by their brothers.

If they died right now, their deaths would serve no purpose. And even though he hated to admit it; Ballard was right. Aramis would surely never be able to forgive himself.

The slight slump of Porthos's shoulders and the resigned look in his eyes told d'Artagnan the exact moment his friend reached the same conclusion.

D'Artagnan grudgingly released his tight hold on Ballard's throat.

Reluctantly lowering his pistol, Porthos's expression changed to one of indifference and he raised his chin defiantly. "Better mark my words, Ballard. Before this is all said and done, I  _will_ kill you."

Meeting Porthos's gaze unflinchingly, Ballard tilted his head to the side. "I would be disappointed if you didn't try. We shall see who prevails in the end."

Breaking eye contact with Porthos, Ballard turned to address his group of men. The words he spoke were infused with the same venom evidently residing in his heart.

"Seize them and confiscate all of their weapons."

Three of Ballard's men made to follow his order immediately. After relieving the larger musketeer of his pistol they roughly forced both Porthos's and d'Artagnan's arms behind their backs, tightly binding them with rope and effectively rendering them useless.

D'Artagnan tried hard to hide his grimace as the none too gentle treatment and the manipulation of his arms effectively reignited the flame in his side.

Seizing them with a triumphant stare Ballard spoke, "You will be tied up in the barn until Aramis arrives." – A feral grin spread across his features – "Then we shall see which one of you dies first."

When Ballard turned on his heels to walk away, Porthos and d'Artagnan watched his retreating form with equal looks of contempt and loathing.

Once again d'Artagnan had to bite down hard on the rage that threatened to resurface as the anger within coiled his insides into a painful knot.

Judging by the low growl sounding next to him, Porthos wasn't fairing any better.

"Move it, Musketeer." The terse command sounded menacing in d'Artagnan's ear and was accompanied by a vicious shove from behind, effectively breaking his focus on Ballard.

Staggering badly due to the unexpected push, he was still fighting to regain his balance when the man beside him seized his upper arm in a tight grip and led him in the direction of the stables.

As they entered the basic wooden structure, Porthos was directed to one of two structural beams located several yards apart, towards the middle of the empty barn.

D'Artagnan was escorted to the other.

The third man had apparently been instructed to oversee the proceedings as he stayed by the entry way, his watchful eyes and his aim never wandering.

While positioned to face each other, their captors briefly loosened Porthos's and d'Artagnan's bindings only to force their arms around the support beams behind their backs and secure them tightly once more.

After that, the three men left without another word.

As soon as the door latched behind them, Porthos started to struggle against his bindings. Yielding no result as the rope didn't budge, a frustrated growl escaped him.

"Damn it all to hell." Throwing his head back in frustration, it connected to the beam with an audible thud.

D'Artagnan was fighting his own, internal battle as the words Ballard had spoken earlier would still not leave him and had been playing on a frantic loop inside his mind ever since.

Feeling the overwhelming need to voice his concerns, d'Artagnan finally gave in with the irrational hope that Porthos would find a way to alleviate his worries. He only wished his voice didn't sound so terribly young.

"Do you think it could be true? Do you believe Athos might be dead?"

At his quiet inquiry Porthos leveled his head forward and locked eyes with him, his friend's penetrating gaze studying d'Artagnan intently for a moment.

"Nah." Porthos finally said, shaking his head. "Athos is a stubborn old goat. He don't die easily. Besides, Aramis was with him and the state of mind 'e was in this morning, he'd walk through fire before 'e let anything happen to Athos."

D'Artagnan pondered that statement for a moment. He hadn't missed the underlying worry coloring Porthos's words, but also realized there was little that could be done right now.

Imploring himself to stay positive, d'Artagnan nodded in agreement. "Alright. In that case, they'd better show up soon and get us out of here."

Porthos grinned at him. "I'd prefer to meet 'em half way."

"And how exactly do you propose we do that? My bindings don't even give a fraction." Just to be certain, d'Artagnan started twisting his wrists and pushing against the rope with enthusiasm. His efforts were stopped short however when the movements jarred his injured side, sending fiery daggers shooting through his ribs.

His face scrunched up in pain involuntarily.

"Ey. You al'ight?"

Opening his eyes slowly, d'Artagnan found Porthos staring at him intently, a fierce scowl darkening his friend's features.

His breath hitched. "I'm fine. It's nothing."

"That's amusing. You sound like Aramis; he says the same thing, usually right before 'e passes out."

Tilting his head, d'Artagnan shot an indignant look in Porthos's direction.

"Let me rephrase then. It's nothing that can be helped right now. Possibly a cracked rib, perhaps two. Most likely some ugly bruising. But I promise there won't be any passing out."

When Porthos narrowed his eyes at him and obviously continued to question his sincerity, d'Artagnan asked casually, "Would you care to discuss the rather deep gash on your upper arm or can we just get on with it, and you tell me how you intended to meet Athos and Aramis half way?"

Tilting his head, Porthos seemed to reconsider quickly. "Good point. Why don't I show ya?"

D'Artagnan wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't the audible pop following a jerky movement of Porthos's upper body.

D'Artagnan watched in confusion as his friend seemingly worked his bindings again, twisting his hands behind the beam. After a moment, Porthos's head fell to his chest, his face having paled considerably.

"Porthos? What…?

Another few seconds later, Porthos pulled his hands from behind him, the ropes falling loosely to the ground.

"How on earth…?"

D'Artagnan's unfinished question was answered a moment later when Porthos gripped his right thumb tightly and maneuvered it back into its socket, accompanied by another sickening crack and a grimace distorting his features.

"You dislocated your thumb?" The disbelief in his voice was slowly overridden by the appreciation he felt at Porthos's persistence. "That is insane and yet… Quite brilliant."

Quickly closing the distance between him and d'Artagnan, Porthos only grinned at him. "Worked, didn't it? If you want, I can show ya how to do it."

Frowning deeply and pondering the disturbing thought for only a moment, he replied, "Thank you, but I think I'll pass."

"Suit yourself." Porthos chuckled lightly as he made his way around the beam, squeezing d'Artagnan's shoulder briefly as he walked past.

When he started to loosen the bindings, Porthos's voice sounded lost in concentration. "Alright then. Let's see if we can get you out of there without dislocatin' any digits."

After a moment, d'Artagnan felt the ropes slip off his wrists and fall to the floor behind him. Pulling his hands forward, he briefly rubbed at the chafing left behind by the coarse material.

Looking around the empty structure, he weighed their options. "It sure would have been nice of Ballard if he had brought our horses and weapons."

"I'll be sure to put in a request for next time," Porthos deadpanned.

"I don't think that will be necessary." – d'Artagnan's voice took on an edge of steel – "Not after he gets what he deserves."

Turning his head towards d'Artagnan, Porthos's hardened gaze met his. "Amen, brother."

After a moment, d'Artagnan broke eye contact, indicating the small gate opposite the doorway they had used to enter the structure. "That might work. An exit away from prying eyes."

Their earlier surveillance of the property had told them that the back of the barn was connected to a pasture.

With any luck, they might be able to circle around the building and reach their horses without anyone the wiser.

Porthos had already reached their designated exit and rested his hand on the latch, waiting for d'Artagnan to join him. When he came to stand next to his friend, Porthos slowly pulled the gate toward himself.

"Did you honestly believe me foolish enough to let you escape so easily?"

D'Artagnan's eyes closed of their own accord and he exhaled slowly in resignation as he registered the voice behind him.

Recovering quickly, he turned to face Ballard and his men, once again finding several pistols aimed in their direction. This was getting old, fast.

"One can always hope," he answered Ballard's question casually, hoping he had succeeded in lending his voice an air of indifference.

"You seem to have forgotten that I know exactly how resourceful Musketeers are trained to be." Leaning forward slightly, Ballard lowered his voice as if he was sharing a secret. "After all,  _I am one._ "

The extent of Porthos's fury was visible only in his dark eyes as he seized Ballard with a menacing stare and spoke in a blood-chilling tone of voice.

"You are no Musketeer. You're a disgrace to anyone who has ever worn the uniform with honor."

Ballard's response came from an unexpected direction as a nod of his head signaled someone behind them to deliver a brutal blow to the back of Porthos's head.

D'Artagnan had a split second to register what was happening as Porthos sank to the ground next to him. Turning just in time to glimpse at the butt of a pistol coming his way with concerning velocity, he realized the only thing left to do was to resign himself to his fate.

He neither felt the blunt object connect with his temple nor noticed his legs fold underneath him when he fell into darkness next to his friend.

_TBC_


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6_

_Athos POV_

Athos nodded to the woman standing on the other side of the kitchen table, a grim expression tightening his features. "I need you to keep him as still as you possibly can. His transition into consciousness will not be pleasant by any means."

"I understand." – Constance readjusted her hold on the motionless man before her; one hand had a tight grip on Aramis's left shoulder while the other was firmly pressed against his chest. – "I am ready."

Athos admired the strength of the woman across from him and not for the first time he understood exactly why d'Artagnan was drawn to her. Her courage was inspiring. And even though her eyes betrayed the true extent of her concern; Athos knew he could count on Constance to do what was necessary.

Especially if one of their own was at stake.

Focusing his attention back on Aramis, he felt his own anxiety at his friend's condition take hold once more.

The man had remained stubbornly unresponsive since his battered body had given into the effects of blood loss and exhaustion after his duel with Valois.

Carrying Aramis's unconscious form from the alley to Constance's house had been no easy feat and must have jarred his injuries considerably and yet, his friend had never even stirred.

He had placed Aramis on the kitchen table in the small dining area and immediately started to maneuver him out of his doublet and shirt.

When he was finally able to study the extent of the damage underneath the layers, he was suddenly grateful his friend hadn't woken thus far.

Seizing the blood slick arm with one hand, he now rested his gaze on the angry entry wound where the ball of the pistol had tunneled its way through Aramis's muscle. Because the weapon had been fired from such short distance, the ball had had enough force to exit and leave a ragged and heavily bleeding mess of a hole on the other side.

The white hot blade he had pulled from the coals of the fireplace not a minute before rested heavily in Athos's hand, the instrument seemingly carrying the weight of responsibility for his friend's wellbeing.

With one last look at Aramis's deathly pale features and a feeling of deep regret, Athos pressed the flat of the blade against the torn opening in his friend's bicep.

When the smell of burnt flesh reached his nostrils, Athos's stomach coiled into a tight knot, and he had to force himself to hold the hissing metal in place long enough for the broken skin to fuse back together.

A ragged scream tore from Aramis's throat at the same time and signaled his cruel arrival in the land of the living.

Disoriented and obviously confused he struggled violently against the hands restraining him; a desperate effort to escape the pain.

Athos lost his hold on Aramis's arm.

"We need to keep him still; the exit wound is yet to be closed," Athos's voice sounded rough to his ears as he tried to regain purchase on the injured limb.

Constance's reply held a trace of rising panic, "Trust me, I am trying. He is surprisingly strong for a man who lost this much blood." Turning to the struggling Musketeer, she kept her voice soft when she spoke next, "Aramis? Aramis, please stop. You are going to hurt yourself."

When Aramis's efforts of resistance did not abate, Athos changed his approach.

Resting one hand on the center of his friend's chest, he pushed down just hard enough to keep the man on his back.

Leaning in close to make sure he was within Aramis's line of sight, he kept his voice steady, "Easy, brother. It's me. Focus on me." After a moment, wild eyes finally locked onto his. "Now, I just need you to settle down, because I must still close the exit wound. You are losing too much blood."

He lifted the blade for Aramis to see, his tone carrying a note of remorse when he asked, "do you understand my friend?"

The chest beneath the steady pressure of Athos's hand still heaved in a mad rhythm, but Aramis's cloudy and pain filled expression cleared as he slowly nodded his understanding and seized his struggles.

"Do you feel this?" Readjusting his hand on his friend's chest, Athos kept his touch gentle in an effort to comfort rather than restrain. "I am not going anywhere and you  _will_  be alright. As far as I am concerned, there is no other outcome."

His honest declaration earned him another stilted nod from the man before him.

Reluctantly tearing his eyes away from Aramis, Athos looked to Constance, who had just pulled a second blade out of the coals in her fireplace and handed it to him with an apologetic look in her eyes.

He exchanged the cooling weapon in his hand with the one now offered to him.

Without further hesitation, he seized his friend's arm yet again and pressed the white hot instrument to the bloody mess that was the exit wound.

As soon as the metal came into contact with the raw skin, another blood-curdling scream echoed through the room and Aramis's back arched involuntarily.

When Athos was finally able to lift the blade after seemingly endless seconds, Aramis sagged in exhaustion; his hammering breath coming in shallow bursts and his pain riddled expression was a testament to the agony he had to be feeling.

Cringing tiredly, Athos wiped the sweat beading on his brow with his forearm, his strength having evidently escaped together with Aramis's last ragged scream.

The knife slipped out of his hand, clattering to the floor. Athos paid it no heed.

Leaning over his friend once more, he rested his hand on the side of Aramis's neck in a firm hold and said, "It is done."

After a moment, pain filled eyes opened slowly and searched for his.

Aramis steadfastly locked on to Athos's gaze but remained silent as he apparently didn't yet trust his voice.

Realizing that his friend used his presence and touch to ground himself, to slowly steady his breathing and regain a semblance of control, Athos didn't dare to break eye contact.

He didn't dare move at all while he waited for his friend to recover slowly.

When another, decidedly more delicate hand came to rest on Aramis's shoulder, the man looked to his left and for the first time seemed to register Constance's presence.

She seemed to have paled slightly in the face of Aramis's pain, though her voice remained steady when she said, "It is good to have you back." – A relieved smile graced her features – "And considering what you just went through, I promise I will refrain from slapping you today."

Aramis's tired smile was considerably less charming than his normal radiant grin, but he did finally find his voice. And even though his words sounded raspy and hoarse he had a trace of his usual humor about him when he formed his reply. "You are most kind Madame."

With another squeeze to Aramis's shoulder, Constance turned to Athos, "I will fetch herbs and cloth to bind the wound."

At Athos's nod, she left the room.

"Would you be so kind to help me sit up?"

Turning towards the rasping sound of Aramis's voice, Athos assessed the pale man before him with a scrutinizing gaze.

In a morbid show of color, the dark red blood covering most of the injured arm seemed to complete the vivid array of purple and blue bruising wrapping around Aramis's exposed ribs.

Raising a questioning eyebrow, Athos asked, "Are you certain that is wise?"

A humorless and extremely tired chuckle escaped Aramis's throat, "That my friend remains to be seen. But regardless; I refuse to discuss battle strategy while lying flat on my back."

Tilting his head in reluctant agreement Athos reached out to tightly grasp Aramis's left arm, pulling him up slowly.

His friend hissed in pain as the movement jarred his wounds and, once seated, immediately cradled his injured limb to his bare chest, his eyes screwed shut tightly.

Athos held on to the other man, watching his desperate fight for control. "Steady now. Deep breaths." After a long moment, Aramis finally opened his eyes slowly and gave a shaky nod.

Athos hesitantly released his hold.

Barely recovered enough to find his voice, Aramis bit out breathlessly, "We need to go after Porthos and d'Artagnan."

"And we will. When we left the alley, I paid a boy at the market to deliver word to Treville. I expect him shortly. We will discuss our next course of action as soon as the captain arrives."

Aramis nodded tiredly in agreement, bringing up his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and bowing his head in obvious discomfort.

Evidently remembering something important, his head shot up again suddenly, and he grimaced at the movement. "How is your head? I saw blood after I tackled you."

Athos scoffed involuntarily, "Says the man who spilled most of  _his_ blood onto cobblestone." Seeing the honest concern in Aramis's eyes though he softened his tone, "My head is fine my friend. Hard as ever."

"You were out for a while," Aramis pressed. "No double vision, dizziness, nausea?"

Truthfully, his head had been throbbing relentlessly since he woke in a panic, realizing Aramis was not with him. Considering the tender knot and crusted blood where it impacted, he assumed his discomfort was to be expected.

In the face of Aramis's scrutinizing gaze, he opted to answer as closely to the truth as he felt comfortable, "No double vision or nausea. There may have been a bout of dizziness when I first woke, but it since abated. Now it only aches."

Aramis narrowed his eyes skeptically.

Not willing to waste any more time on the subject, Athos attempted to deflect the other man's concern.

"Besides, we have other things to worry about. We have two missing brothers and  _your_ condition is less than favorable, my friend."

Two dark eyes narrowed at him. "You are not going to ask me to stay behind, are you?"

Aramis's voice was quiet and subdued, yet the challenge behind his words was quite clear.

There was nothing Athos would be able to say, no reason at all on god's green earth that would discourage his friend from going after Porthos and d'Artagnan.

He realized Aramis was in no shape to fight another battle at the moment, but he also knew that attempting to leave the man out of it would be a pointless undertaking.

And he understood. He truly did. Because Athos alone was qualified to understand the guilt he recognized in his friend's eyes. Had felt it himself when Thomas had died and more recently, when his wife had resurfaced to haunt him yet again.

Aramis felt responsible for their current situation and blamed himself for Porthos's and d'Artagnan's absence.

Athos was aware that there was no absolution he could offer that would make the slightest bit of difference in his friend's mind. There were no words of comfort that would hold any meaning at the moment. There was only one acceptable outcome.

" _We_   _will_  get them back, I promise you."

And with every fiber of his being Athos prayed that he would be able to keep this promise; knowing without doubt that if he failed, they would all be lost.

When Aramis remained stubbornly quiet, Athos sighed audibly and continued in a low voice, "I understand the burden you carry; more than you realize. And I even understand the impulse to protect us from your past.

"That being said, I need  _you_  to understand that you are not to blame for any of this and that this is not a battle you can fight alone. Nor do you have to." Athos made sure his eyes were locked to Aramis's at his next words. "Not this time."

He laid a hand on his friend's shoulder, imploring him to understand.

"If we are  _all_  to survive this day, it can only be done together. Do you understand what I am saying?"

"Yes." – Aramis nodded slowly, his voice holding a surprisingly sheepish undertone – "You are telling me not to be 'my reckless self.' This is the second time today that someone feels the need to issue that warning."

Athos scoffed, "I believe you could probably stand to hear it a  _few_  more times, considering you just jumped in front of a firing pistol."

"I'd say that was for a good cause, was it not?"

Athos couldn't deny that he would most likely be dead if Aramis hadn't reacted the way he did. Of course, it wouldn't do any good to admit that right now.

"Obviously I am grateful for your quick reflexes; however, my point remains the same. Nobody wants you to sacrifice yourself over some misplaced feeling of guilt. And if Porthos and d'Artagnan were here, they would tell you the same."

Exhaling audibly, Aramis conceded in a quiet voice. "Trust me Athos; no matter how I might feel about this situation or the demons that came with it, I do understand my current limitations, both physical and otherwise."

After pausing briefly, Aramis's eyes shone bright with honesty at his next words "And I am honored to have you standing by my side for whatever might lie ahead. As you said,  _we_  will get them back. The rest can be sorted out later."

Athos nodded in agreement, relief coursing through him at Aramis's words.

Any reply he may have given was cut off however by a sharp intake of breath from the doorway.

Turning towards the noise, he saw Constance rooted to the spot, her face stricken and pale.

Before Athos could recover his voice, Aramis asked quietly, "How much did you hear?"

"Enough." Her voice took on a biting edge. "Where are they?"

As Athos watched his friend briefly falter in the face of Constance's rising panic, he answered in Aramis's stead.

"We believe they are being held for leverage."

"Leverage for what?"

Thus far Constance knew nothing of the situation they found themselves in. When he had carried Aramis's unconscious and bleeding body from the alley, she had not wasted any time with trivial questions.

Now however Athos could tell that her worry for d'Artagnan's life would trump all else.

With a sidelong glance at Aramis, he started his attempt at an explanation while being extremely careful not to let his own concern for his brothers bleed through in his voice.

"It seems that we find ourselves in the middle of a scheme for revenge. The identity of the last player has yet to be revealed; but since neither d'Artagnan nor Porthos are the main targets of this plot, I believe them safe for now."

When Constance remained silent and unmoving, her eyes downcast, Aramis slowly let himself slip over the edge of the table. When his feet touched the ground, he briefly closed his eyes to steady himself before carefully walking across the room, coming to stand in front of her.

In an attempt to comfort, Aramis rested his hand on Constance's shoulder and quietly said, "I swear to you that we will stop at nothing to get them back safely." – He put a finger underneath her chin and gently lifted her head until her eyes met his – "I  _will_  bring him home."

After a long moment, Athos was able to watch the fear in Constance's eyes slowly abate under his friend's steady gaze.

"I believe you." Her voice was but a whisper.

Quickly clearing her throat and straightening her back in an obvious attempt to reign in her emotions, Constance's voice sounded much stronger when she added, "Of course you would be even more convincing if you didn't look like a light breeze might blow you over."

Aramis's lips curved into a small smile. "To be fair, it has been a rather challenging day."

"I am sure it has." Constance gestured at the supplies she carried. "Let's get you cleaned up and that wound dressed."

Athos watched as Aramis slowly shuffled back to the table, noting with concern how even the short time on his feet had left his body trembling slightly and his bare chest glistening with sweat.

Considering the blood loss his friend had suffered and the pain that was clearly edged on his tired features, Athos wondered if perhaps this time Aramis's stubbornness and determination might not be enough to sustain him for the remainder of this day and the trials that still lay ahead.

With Aramis seated on the table once more, Constance set about to carefully wash his arm around the burn sites with a wet cloth. Her fingers worked diligently and scrubbed gently at the sticky and dried substance coating most of his limb.

"I very much appreciate all you have done for us today." Aramis's words were quiet and strained. "All you have done for me."

"Well, it is hard to refuse a man who is unconscious and bleeding like a stuck pig." Her eyes found his for a moment, and all sarcasm drained from her voice. "But you are very welcome."

When a knock sounded at the front door, Athos made to cross the room only to see Treville stride through the doorway a moment later; obviously not interested in wasting any time on formalities.

Lifting his hat briefly he said, "I apologize for the intrusion, Madame Bonacieux."

Before she could form a reply, however, the Captain's eyes found Aramis. "What the hell happened now?"

Aramis opened his mouth to respond, but Athos beat him to it. "He took a ball to the arm in his effort to save my life."

When Treville's eyes narrowed darkly, Aramis added, "It seems that Nicolas Valois had two brothers; one of them having been part of the group who ambushed us in the forest; the man with the ring. The other one was waiting for us at the old Valois family home."

Athos lowered himself into one of the kitchen chairs, bracing his arms on his knees. "It seems that we have a spy in our midst. There is no other explanation. The plans to visit Valois' home were only made yesterday evening and yet somehow they knew about it."

Treville crossed his arms over his chest, a thunderous expression on his face when he spoke, "Its Ballard."

"Say again?" Aramis's outburst was interrupted when Constance placed the herbs she had prepared onto his wound and tied a strip of cloth firmly around it.

All color suddenly drained from Aramis's face and he tightly gripped the edge of the table in a desperate struggle for balance as his body was wracked with a visible shudder of pain.

"Sorry." Constance's quiet apology sounded through the room. "I'm so sorry, but it needs to be tight."

"It's alright." The words were forced through gritted teeth and his eyes remained shut.

Watching as his friend yet again struggled for control, Athos fought his impulse to cross the short distance between them, knowing his gesture would not be appreciated with the captain present.

Instead, he remained seated and quietly inquired, "Aramis?"

"It's fine." Taking a few steadying breaths, he seemed finally able to right his equilibrium and opened his eyes. "I'm fine."

Athos sighed deeply while Treville had an extremely skeptical look on his face; however, neither one of them voiced their concern out loud.

Aramis's pain filled eyes settled on his captain, his voice having a razor sharp edge to it, "Did you say Ballard?"

"I did." Treville's head briefly bowed, the burden of delivering this news obviously weighing heavily on him. "He never arrived for morning muster, and no one had seen him since last night. Because of yesterday's ambush and the obvious breach in mission details, I considered everything out of the ordinary as suspicious and had his quarters searched."

Reaching into his pocket, Treville retrieved a small circular object. "We found this."

The item was gently tossed in his direction and Athos caught it easily. Studying the ring closely, he felt one of his eyebrows rise in surprise. "It is identical to the one we recovered from the assassin in the forest." – He held it out for Aramis to see – "A silver ring braided in wire. And a V on the inside."

"This means he's our missing link," Athos concluded. "He's-"

"He's Valois' son."Aramis finished the sentence for him, disbelief warring with the anger in his voice. "How is this possible?"

"After we found the ring, I dug a little deeper," Treville replied. "Ballard changed his name before he joined the regiment. He was born as Bernard Valois."

"Christ." As the truth stared him in the face, Athos instinctively looked to Aramis. "That means he's the one holding them."

When Treville frowned at them both, Aramis took it upon himself to explain, "We have reason to believe that Porthos and d'Artagnan are being held at Duval's farm."

Sighing audibly, Aramis's voice took on a bitter edge. "It seems they may have become leverage in Ballard's scheme to get to me."

Nodding in understanding, Treville said, "then we have no time to waste. We will fetch the horses and ride for the farm."

"The three of us?" Athos clarified.

"Yes." Glancing in Aramis's direction, Treville explained, "This is a personal matter on many levels, and I will not stand for another traitor in our midst."

At Aramis's nod of understanding, Treville settled his eyes on Athos and continued, "Also, the delicacy of the situation requires us to keep this contained as best we can. I do not want to involve anyone else unless absolutely necessary.

"We will survey the property first to assess how many men Ballard has with him and to determine where he is holding Porthos and d'Artagnan."

Athos and Aramis both nodded their agreement.

Just then Constance returned, carrying a clean shirt and Aramis's belongings. Placing his doublet, weapon's belt and hat on the table next to him, she said, "Your shirt was ruined, so I brought you one of my husband's. He won't miss it."

At Aramis's grateful nod, she pulled the material over his head. Carefully maneuvering his arms into the sleeves by himself, he only grimaced slightly at the movement.

Closing the distance in a few strides, Treville came to stand in front of his battered soldier. "I am fairly certain I know the answer before I even ask the question, but seeing the sorry state you're in I need to ask anyway." The captain rested one hand on Aramis's shoulder, and his voice softened considerably when he continued, "Are you sure you'll be able to handle this, son?"

"I will not let you down," Aramis vowed.

Treville nodded, accepting the answer. "That possibility never crossed my mind." He held his soldiers gaze for another moment and gave the shoulder beneath his fingers a gentle squeeze.

As Athos had done before, their captain obviously came to terms with the fact that no matter his condition, Aramis was going to be part of this fight.

Treville stepped back just as Aramis voiced a thought. "You know; we do have one advantage here."

When Athos and Treville both looked at him expectantly, he continued, "I am certain Ballard believes that Athos is dead, and he probably expects me to arrive alone in a desperate attempt to retrieve my remaining brothers." – He looked from Treville to Athos – "We should give him what he wants. If Ballard is distracted by my presence, it will give you the opportunity to free Porthos and d'Artagnan undetected."

Athos exhaled sharply in annoyance, his voice infused with the sudden anger that surged his system. "Do you not remember what we discussed only minutes ago? Your memory can't possibly be that flawed. You  _cannot_  win this battle on your own."

Aramis was not easily intimidated, however, and he matched Athos's tone in volume and ferocity. "I have no intention of fighting this battle on my own, Athos. As I told you before, I am quite aware of my current limitations, and I would never risk their lives this carelessly."

"Yet you would risk your own?"

The fight seemed to leave the injured man with an audible sigh, and he softened his voice as he continued, "I am merely suggesting that we use Ballard's obsession with me as a distraction. If he sees me approaching alone from the front, he hopefully won't think to cover his back. Unless you have a better idea?"

Aramis's unyielding gaze bore into his.

And the truth was that he didn't have a better idea. If Aramis could keep Ballard talking long enough for them to reach Porthos and d'Artagnan, it would ensure that their friends would not be used as leverage against them.

And yet, he still hated the mere thought. It would leave Aramis largely uncovered and at the whim of a man whose mental state had been drawn into serious question.

Athos was grateful that in the end he was not the one who had to make this call. "Captain?"

Eying Aramis's weary form, Treville spoke his next words with obvious reluctance. "I hate to say it, but it might be our best chance; especially considering that we will most likely be outnumbered at least two to one."

Rising from his chair, Athos exhaled slowly, accepting defeat. "So be it." Closing the distance between him and Aramis, he picked up the leather doublet that still lay on the table next to his friend.

Holding the coat at an angle, the other man was able to easily slip his arms inside.

Not wanting his friend to see the apprehension on his face, Athos focused his attention on the task of fastening Aramis's leathers.

As his fingers started to latch the leather buttons one by one, he spoke slowly and quietly, "Be cautious in your approach. Keep him talking, yet refrain from antagonizing him unnecessarily. One of us will have you in their sight at all times to intervene if needed. And as soon as Porthos and d'Artagnan are in the clear, Ballard will suffer the consequences of betraying his own. I promise you that."

When the final button latched into place, Athos looked up. He was slightly startled by the level of emotion he recognized in the dark depths that greeted him; Aramis's eyes shining bright and earnest with unspoken gratitude.

Resting his hand on his friend's shoulder, Athos nodded his head slowly and said, "Let's bring them home."

_TBC_

* * *

_Thank you all for reading. Reviews are most welcome :)_


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7_

_Porthos POV_

Prying his heavy lids open proved more difficult than the simple task had any right to be. Finally succeeding in his efforts, he belatedly realized that he wasn't able to  _see_ anything.

In an attempt to clear his blurred vision, Porthos blinked several times in rapid succession. Only noting minimal improvement, he instead focused on banishing the cobwebs someone seemed to have spun inside his head without permission.

Shaking his head to that end proved to be a mistake as a storm suddenly roared to life inside as if to remind him of what had happened.

He hated being struck on the head, especially from behind. It always felt like a personal insult and only served to anger him beyond reason. Someone was going to bloody pay for it.

Blinking his eyes again, he took stock of his situation.

He seemed to be sitting on the ground, with his arms forced behind his back and around the same beam he had been tied to before. Only this time there was an additional layer of rope securely wound around his chest several times, effectively tying his upper body to the pillar as well.

He felt the urge to growl in annoyance.

Blinking his eyes one more time, he finally managed to ban the remaining muddle from his vision and looked up.

The first thing to enter his line of sight was d'Artagnan. His young friend was on the ground as well, tied to his own beam in much the same manner as Porthos was tied to his.

Still unconscious and far too pale, d'Artagnan's unmoving form was slumped in on itself as much as his bindings would allow. A laceration on his temple had slowly been seeping blood down the side of his face, lending his young friend a ghastly appearance.

Feeling his heartbeat quicken at the sight, Porthos hurriedly settled his gaze on d'Artagnan's chest and was relieved to see the steady and reassuring rise and fall.

Nevertheless, in the face of his friend's condition he finally released the angry growl that had been building inside his chest.

"Look who decided to join our party."

The mocking voice sounded from his left, and when he turned his head, Porthos recognized two of the men who had entered the barn with Ballard right before he had been clobbered over the head.

Struggling against his bindings, Porthos's face twisted in anger at their sight. "Untie me and my fist will have a party on your face."

It seemed that after their failed escape attempt, Ballard had opted not to leave them unattended again.

_Pity._

Both of their guards were seated on upturned barrels, their backs leaning against the wall of the barn.

Obviously feeling safe in the knowledge that Porthos and his anger were tightly secured, the shorter of the two leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees and replied with a sneer in his voice.

"You better settle down,  _Musketeer_. Or I guarantee you'll regret it."

Porthos chuckled. "I really hope Ballard paid you enough coin worth dyin' for. Cause you do realize that's goin' to happen, don't you? What do you think is the punishment for holdin' the king's guard prisoner?"

A nasty grin spread across the other man's face. "As a matter of fact, he paid enough that I don't concern myself with thoughts of negative consequences. They are always part of the game in my line of work. And believe me, this time any risk is  _well_ worth it."

Porthos had meant to bait the man, but the answer he received gave him pause. This man was either exaggerating tremendously or Ballard had another source of income; a sponsor perhaps. There was absolutely no conceivable way he would be able to pay these men a lot of money on a musketeer's commission.

His suspicion only deepened when he thought of the pouches with coin they had discovered in the saddle bags of the men who had ambushed them the day prior.

Before he could form a reply, however, he registered a low moan across from him, followed by a raspy voice. "Porthos?"

D'Artagnan lifted his head slowly and leaned back against the beam, grimacing in pain.

"Easy, lad. That gash looks like it stings," Porthos cautioned.

The man on the barrel scoffed. "Musketeers. Pathetic."

Turning his head, Porthos's eyes narrowed dangerously, his voice a low rumble. "You'll be the first one to die, I promise you."

"And how exactly are you going to do that, all tied up nice and neat?"

At that moment, the gate leading to the pasture rattled slightly as something impacted it with a  _thud._

Porthos smiled dangerously, "You're about to find out."

Something else was thrown into the gate a few seconds later, and this time the old wooden frame shook badly under the force of the impact.

His captors looked at Porthos in confusion but made an honest effort not to show their unease.

Standing up, the shorter man slowly walked towards the gate and shouted, "Henri? What is happening out there?"

No answer was forthcoming.

"Henri is dead. That's what's happenin' out there." Keeping his voice indifferent, Porthos attempted to bait the man into making a mistake.

Narrowing his eyes, the guard first pulled his pistol and then turned to his comrade. "You know what you need to do. I will return shortly."

"No you won't," Porthos said with conviction.

The gate rattled again, the sound unnerving.

"Shut your mouth." The pistol was briefly aimed in his direction, and Porthos noted with satisfaction that the man before him was fraying around the edges.

Turning back to the gate, his captor put one hand on the latch and waited.

When Porthos realized that the other man had unsheathed his dagger and was headed d'Artagnan's way, his blood ran cold.

Settling in behind the Gascon, the second guard crouched down to use the pillar and d'Artagnan's body as a shield. His arm snuck around to the front, the blade coming to rest threateningly against the tender flesh of the young man's throat.

Porthos watched his friend lifting his chin as far as he was able in an effort to escape the pressure of the biting metal. D'Artagnan's eyes blinked rapidly, and Porthos realized that it was a desperate attempt to at least clear his vision in the face of his quickly deteriorating situation.

Fierce anger surged Porthos's system at the sight and had him struggling against his bindings with renewed force.

Their guards exchanged a quick look, and when the man behind d'Artagnan nodded curtly, the other one pushed down on the latch and slowly pulled the gate open just wide enough for one person to pass through.

Porthos watched with bated breath as the man took one step over the threshold, his pistol carefully aimed as he disappeared from view behind the partially opened door.

No longer able to see what was happening, Porthos listened closely instead.

The pistol never fired, but he was able to discern sounds of a short scuffle. Metal hitting metal, an object clattering to the ground and finally a loud bang and a whoosh of air as a body heavily impacted the gate, forcefully pushing it open the rest of the way.

The man staggering backward through the opening had one hand clutched to his abdomen, trying and failing to keep his lifeblood from escaping. Porthos was relieved to see that the guard's pistol was no longer in his possession as he stumbled another two steps, and finally crumpled to the ground.

"Told 'im he would be the first to die," Porthos mumbled.

One down, one to go.

Porthos's gaze found d'Artagnan and quickly assessed the younger man's situation. With the blade still steadily pressed against his throat, his friend didn't dare to move, and his heaving chest attempted to rapidly draw air in shallow bouts.

Hurriedly locking eyes with the younger man, Porthos attempted to dispel d'Artagnan's dejected look with his unwavering gaze and a confident nod of his head.

The man behind his friend shifted slightly, his posture tense and his expression anxious. He had now become an unpredictable threat in the face of his comrade's sudden demise; a cornered animal ready to lash out.

The sound of soft footsteps drew Porthos's eyes back to the open gate, and he watched Athos walk through, imposing and stoic as ever and his pistol carefully primed.

The relief he felt at the sight of his friend was immense.

Taking but a moment to fully grasp the situation, the older Musketeer focused his attention solely on the coward hiding behind d'Artagnan and the blade which could so easily end the life of one of their own.

Athos took another step as he searched d'Artagnan's eyes. Evidently finding what he was looking for, he nodded his head minutely.

Continuously shifting nervously in his inadequate hiding place, the man holding the blade could no longer contain his anxiety.

When the knife inadvertently nicked d'Artagnan's tender skin, the young Musketeer closed his eyes. Athos tensed in reaction and with a grim expression he took a sideway step to gain a slightly better angle.

"Not even another  _twitch_  Musketeer or I swear I will cut his th – "

The report of the pistol echoed through the barn and Porthos watched with bated breath as the ball hit home in the center of the man's forehead. Instantly collapsing in on himself, he slid sideways to the ground; the edge of the knife grating dangerously along d'Artagnan's throat before finally falling away.

The young man's head was bowed; his body motionless.

Athos's face lost all color at the sight before him, and he seemed incapable of moving.

Unable to calm his own thundering heartbeat in the face of d'Artagnan's unknown fate, Porthos's frustration mounted with his inability to take action himself. "Athos? Is he…?"

Porthos knew that the older Musketeer had taken a calculated risk when firing his pistol. The choice to put an end to the situation before it had the chance to escalate further had been the obvious one.

However, it was only the  _right_  choice if d'Artagnan lived.

Porthos was painfully aware that Athos's already damaged soul would not be able to bear the young man's loss.

" _Athos."_

The command in his voice finally spurred Athos into action and he watched as the man quickly tucked away his pistol and closed the remaining distance between him and d'Artagnan in a hurry.

Crouching in front of the young man, Athos's anxiety was tangible in every word and movement.

"Let me see."

When the older Musketeer reached out to lift d'Artagnan's chin, his hands betrayed him further as they shook in anticipation of what he might find.

Carefully studying the damage done to d'Artagnan's throat for a long moment, Athos finally sagged in relief. "The cut is shallow."

Porthos's head fell back and connected with the beam behind him as the anxiety he had been feeling slowly seeped out of his system.

Keeping his eyes focused on d'Artagnan, Athos said, "Something else seems to be the matter with him. His eyes are unfocused and his reaction time is extremely slow. I am no physician, but I surmise it might have something to do with the gash on his head and the blood on his face?"

"Yeah. Ballard's invitation for us to stay a while longer involved the butt of a pistol. Our young friend was pretty slow wakin' up earlier. Might be concussed."

Athos cupped d'Artagnan's cheek, trying to rouse the younger man, yet keeping his voice soft. "D'Artagnan? Are you with us?"

Patting the cheek under his palm repeatedly, Athos attempted to breach the haze that had no doubt settled inside their friend's head. Unable to hide the anxiety in his voice, he asked, "Are you alright? I need you to be alright."

Sluggish eyes slowly settled on Athos. "'m here. Head hurts."

"Yes, it looks like it might." – Athos moved his hand to d'Artagnan's shoulder and squeezed gently – "Luckily it is not bleeding any longer."

Leaning around the beam, Athos swiftly unsheathed his main gauche and cut d'Artagnan's bindings. "Stay on the ground, I will be right back."

Porthos watched as d'Artagnan pulled his hands forward to gingerly rub at his chafed wrists.

Athos had made his way over, now crouching behind Porthos to finally cut the ropes that had tied him to this blasted beam for far too long.

Rubbing at his own wrists, Porthos looked up when he felt Athos's hand on his shoulder.

When their eyes met, Porthos said, "I am glad to see that the rumors of your death were greatly exaggerated."

"I certainly know how you feel, my friend," Athos replied, nodding in agreement. "Will you help d'Artagnan gain his feet? I need to retrieve the extra weapons I brought from outside the gate."

Porthos still nodded his understanding when the older man suddenly frowned. Slowly pulling his hand off of Porthos's bloody shoulder, Athos looked at the red stain in disbelief. Holding it out wordlessly for Porthos to see, Athos raised one questioning eyebrow.

"What can I say? It's been one hell of a morning." – Porthos pointedly looked at the dark stains covering Athos's doublet – "And it doesn't look like I'm the only one who's been loosin' blood." A tight knot suddenly formed in the pit of his stomach.

Following Porthos's line of sight, Athos cringed noticeably as he looked down on himself. His voice almost sounded apologetic when he replied. "It isn't mine."

"I figured." His words sounded rough to his ears. "He alright?"

"He will be once this is over."

For a moment, he held Athos's gaze, fighting a battle within. Feeling the overwhelming need to know what exactly had happened to Aramis, Porthos desperately wished there was time for him to hear the entire story.

Only he knew there wasn't.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Porthos worked hard to bury his concern deep within and nodded quickly. "Right. Then let's get this over with once and for all."

Briefly clasping Athos's shoulder he pushed himself to his feet, his strained muscles protesting at the movement.

Porthos had only taken one step in d'Artagnan's direction when Athos's voice stopped him. "Wait."

Turning back to his friend with a questioning look, Porthos stood still as Athos removed the bandana from his head. After untying the knot in the piece of cloth, Athos quickly wound the material tightly around the gash in Porthos's arm.

"That was my favorite one," Porthos grumbled quietly and realized he sounded rather petulant while doing so.

Athos was already walking toward the back gate when he replied, his tone laced with sarcasm, "It is always good to know that my men have their priorities in order."

Shrugging his shoulders unconcerned, Porthos walked the last few steps and came to stand in front of d'Artagnan. Crouching low he seized the younger man's arm. "Let's get you up."

With his help, d'Artagnan was able to gain his feet but swayed dangerously at the change in elevation. "Easy now," Porthos cautioned. "It won't do if you fall over."

"Just give me a moment." – The young musketeer leaned heavily against the beam behind him – "I'll be alright."

"Unfortunately a moment might be all we have," Athos said as he rejoined them. Eying d'Artagnan carefully, he handed over one of the weapons belts he carried. "Will you be able to handle what is yet to come?" Athos tilted his head and paused for effect. "And considering our position, I'm afraid I do need an honest answer."

D'Artagnan slowly nodded his understanding of the situation and carefully pushed away from the beam, fully standing on his own. When he replied, his voice was earnest, "I'll admit I have had better days, but I will not let you down."

Athos cupped the back of the younger man's neck. "That is not what I was worried about."

"I need to be a part of this. I'll be alright, I promise."

Sharing a knowing look with Athos, Porthos nodded in understanding. The younger man needed to be able to see this through as much as any of them. For Aramis. For his brothers.

After Porthos had fastened his weapons belt securely around his waist, they moved into position behind the door leading to the yard.

Athos first looked at Porthos, and then d'Artagnan in turn. "Do you happen to know how many men we are facing?"

"When they surrounded us, Ballard had seven men with him," Porthos replied.

Athos nodded. "If that was his entire force, he is now left with only four."

Pressing his body along the wall, Athos cracked the door open just wide enough to peer outside.

Part of a conversation from the yard filtered in through the gap almost immediately. When he recognized Aramis's unmistakable voice, Porthos's eyes closed of their own accord and he exhaled sharply.  _Christ._

" _Please_  tell me that isn't him?" The words came out harsher than intended and the sudden anger surging his system honestly surprised him.

"I'm afraid it is," Athos replied calmly.

Moving closer to Athos, Porthos looked through the gap himself and quickly surveyed the situation outside.

Facing Ballard in the middle of the yard, they stood surrounded by four men; their pistols steadily aiming at Aramis's upper body.

Porthos's growl was fierce.

"I was really hopin' that he'd keep his promise and  _just for once_  not act like the reckless idiot that 'e is."

Athos tilted his head. "Just to be fair, his plan did have merit. I was able to sneak in here undetected  _because_  he's been keeping Ballard occupied."

When he rounded on Athos, Porthos was unable to hide the anger in his voice. "You agreed to this?"

"Only reluctantly. The final call was Treville's."

"Treville? He's here?" d'Artagnan asked.

"He's covering Aramis from behind that building over there." Looking through the narrow opening, Athos pointed to one of the smaller side buildings that had been spared by the fire. "If necessary he is prepared to kill Ballard with one well-aimed shot."

Athos turned his head to look at d'Artagnan and Porthos in turn. "You didn't think I would leave him completely without back-up, did you?"

Porthos only stared back at the older man, no words forthcoming. His frustration and anger at the situation boiled too close to the surface and combined with the concern he felt for his friend outside, he knew he couldn't trust his voice.

Athos's piercing eyes searched his for a moment and, as was so often the case, his friend was able to read him with no difficulty at all. Athos sighed deeply before he spoke his next words.

"You must understand that he  _needed_  to be a part of this and that  _nothing_  and  _no one_  was going to stop him. The only thing we can do is stand by his side and help him end this swiftly."

Porthos released a shuddering breath and slowly nodded his head at Athos's words. In his heart, he knew them to be true. He might not like it in this instance, but Aramis's sense of loyalty would simply not allow him to watch from the sidelines; no matter his condition and especially if he felt responsible for the situation.

"You're right of course," he finally relented. "Let's go join him then."

At Athos's brief nod of agreement Porthos asked, "How do you want to go about this?"

Still peering through the gap in the door, d'Artagnan was the one to reply, "There's been a commotion out there, and it looks like something is about to happen. I can't tell; Ballard's people are blocking my view."

When Porthos focused on the conversation taking place outside the barn, he caught the tail end of Ballard's words,  _"…But first I believe it's time for you to know how it feels to have your brothers ripped from your grasp, and it will be my pleasure to witness your agony over their loss."_

" _Fetch the prisoners so we can get on with this."_

Porthos's voice rumbled in his chest. "He paints a pretty picture, don't 'e? Can't wait to shove it down 'is throat."

Athos slowly closed the door, evidently not wanting to alert the approaching man to their presence.

"Let's be quiet about this, we want to keep the element of surprise." Athos again pressed his body along the wall, next to the entrance.

Porthos took position on the other side of the door.

Moving back a few paces, d'Artagnan stood in the middle of the barn and in plain view of anyone who would enter.

When the door slid open slowly, Porthos readied himself. The man appearing in the doorway had taken one step over the threshold before he noticed d'Artagnan waving at him and attempted to lift his pistol.

Quickly pushing the door closed behind the man to shield them from prying eyes, Porthos's other arm came down on the man's hand like a sledgehammer. His brute strength immediately forced their opponent to drop his weapon to the ground.

Before the man had time to react, Athos's fist connected fiercely with his jaw, forcing him down to one knee.

Seeing that the man before them still clung to consciousness, Porthos smiled at the fact that he finally found an outlet for his pent-up fury.

His fist barreled into the man's temple without warning or mercy, and Porthos watched him collapse to the ground in satisfaction.

Looking up, he realized that Athos was staring at him.

"What? I did it quietly like you asked." He attempted to infuse his voice with innocence but miserably failed to hide his satisfied grin.

Athos raised one eyebrow. "Right. Let's get him to the beam and tie him up."

As they dragged the lifeless body to the middle of the barn to lean him against one of the pillars, Athos evidently couldn't refuse his urge to mock any longer. "I don't think there will be any need to gag him considering he'll probably be unconscious for the next several days."

Porthos chuckled as he fastened the rope around the man's upper body, securing him tightly to the beam. "There is just no pleasing you sometimes, my friend."

Athos huffed in mock annoyance, and Porthos rose to his feet.

Gathering behind the door that would reunite them with Aramis, Porthos first met d'Artagnan's eyes and then settled his gaze on Athos.

All traces of humor were gone from his voice when he solemnly said, "let's finish this and bring him home."

Athos stretched out his arm towards the middle as he intoned, "All for one."

Porthos and d'Artagnan joined in immediately, "And one for all."

_TBC_

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_Only two more chapters to go. Hope you're still with me :) Let me know your thoughts._


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8_

_Aramis POV_

As he was leading his horse into the farm yard, Aramis desperately hoped that he would have the strength to see this through.

The knowledge of what was at stake, of  _who_  was at stake, weighed heavily on his shoulders and yet, at the moment he wasn't even convinced he would reach his destination without falling off his horse.

His entire body was engulfed in pain; his various injuries seemingly working together to see him fail.

His broken ribs had appreciated neither his earlier exertion nor his subsequent collapse and vehemently protested every single step of his mare.

His head had been pounding almost unbearably since he woke at Constance's and he was unable to tell if it was the result of the wound he had sustained the day before or the blood loss he had suffered.

The worst of it by far was his arm. The injured limb was carefully cradled against his chest as every attempted movement caused his vision to gray around the edges. The searing pain emanating from the two burn sites managed to wind itself around his entire being, effectively lowering his defenses.

Athos and Treville had voiced their concerns about his condition several times during the short journey to the farm, and he hadn't dared to insult their intelligence by trying to placate them with false reassurances.

In the end, he was grateful that both of them seemed to understand why he needed to be part of this.

On the bright side, his plan seemed to be working so far. When they had carefully approached the outer reaches of the property, they had been able to find an excellent vantage point atop a ridge to assess the situation at the farm unnoticed.

Their surveillance had shown one guard in front of the barn, revealing Porthos's and d'Artagnan's likely position.

Another three men were stationed at the outskirts of the farmyard, surveying the area and watching for anyone to draw near.

Now approaching the center of the yard by himself, Aramis saw that Ballard must have summoned his men as soon as his presence had been noticed.

_Good._

That would give Athos the opportunity to reach Porthos and d'Artagnan undetected while Treville would hopefully be able to take position behind the side building unseen. The captain and the aim of his musket would be Aramis's line of defense, should events escalate before Athos was ready.

Drawing his horse to a halt, four men immediately surrounded him, their pistols steadily aimed at his chest. When his eyes settled on Ballard's stone cold gaze, he fervently hoped that he hadn't grievously miscalculated the situation.

If Ballard chose to kill him on the spot, none of his brothers would ever forgive him.

The tension in the air was palpable as the moment stretched on.

But instead of pistol fire, it was Ballard's voice that finally broke the silence.

"I knew you'd come."

Stepping forward, Ballard took the reins out of Aramis's hand, signaling clearly what was expected of him.

Aramis held on to the saddle with his left and swung his leg over the horse's rear to dismount. Gritting his teeth against the pain that flooded his system anew, he refused to show any outward sign of weakness when his feet hit the ground.

Taking a few steadying breaths, he turned to Ballard and said, "Of course I came. You didn't leave me much choice, did you?"

Advancing another two steps, Ballard invaded his personal space, his eyes a hurricane of fury and hatred. "Today  _brother,_ you shall experience the same agony you have bestowed upon me. By the time I'm finished with those you hold most dear, you will  _beg_ me to end your life."

Refusing to be baited, Aramis chose to ignore the obvious threat. Instead he stood unflinching in the face of Ballard's madness, raising his chin defiantly.

When he spoke, his steady gaze never wavered.

"You were one of us; a  _Musketeer._  Why do you feel obligated to kill for a man who betrayed  _everything_  he had sworn to protect?"

His voice grew more intense as his rage was fueled and Aramis couldn't stop his next words from escaping. "Even if he was your father, you  _must_  see that his actions were those of a traitor without honor and that I had no choice but to kill him."

The fist was thrust into his abdomen without warning or mercy and due to their proximity to each other Aramis had no chance of avoiding it. The brute force of the blow stole his breath, and as his vision turned white, he doubled over involuntarily, fighting hard to avoid going to his knees.

"Do not talk to me about  _honor_ ," Ballard shouted. "I joined the regiment to  _honor_  my father, only to be deceived for all these years."

Admittedly, it had been a rather foolish thing to say to a man who held most of the cards at the moment. As Aramis struggled to recover his wits, Athos's words kept playing in his mind.

' _Keep him talking, yet refrain from antagonizing him unnecessarily.'_

Easier said than done.

The fire inside his ribs was difficult to breathe around, and the pounding in his head made it extremely challenging to form a coherent thought.

Coughing weakly, Aramis realized that his usual eloquence eluded him at the moment.

He also knew that even if he were able to present it, Ballard would not listen to reason. He was a man consumed by hatred and revenge; Aramis had seen it in his eyes. Due to a string of unfortunate events, Ballard only held contempt for him, and there was nothing he'd be able to say that would make the slightest bit of difference.

And yet, he needed to find a way to give Athos more time.

It crossed his mind that he hadn't been relieved of his weapons yet.

He only briefly wondered if a second foolish act would cancel out the first before he wrapped his left hand around the hilt of his main gauche.

Unsheathing the weapon he straightened as quickly as his damaged body would allow and thrust the blade forward.

Unfortunately, he wasn't quite fast enough.

Ballard avoided the dagger by a hair when he quickly sidestepped the flash of steel rushing at him.

His forward momentum threw Aramis off balance, his movements too stilted and sluggish to avoid Ballard's counter attack.

When his injured arm was seized in a vice-like grip and purposefully twisted sideways, all conscious thought deserted him and his dagger slipped out of his hand.

With the excruciating sensation of liquid fire flooding his entire body, his legs failed him completely, and Aramis was unable to stifle the strangled cry of pain that escaped him when his knees hit the ground.

Closing his eyes against the blackness threatening to overtake him, Aramis felt Ballard lean in close to pull his rapier from its sheath and relief him of his pistol. After handing the weapons to one of his men, Ballard hissed angrily,

"I can't wait to finally drain the life out of you." – He used the death grip he still had on the injured limb to roughly haul Aramis back to his feet – "But first I believe it's time for you to know how it feels to have your brothers ripped from your grasp, and it will be my  _pleasure_  to witness your agony over their loss."

Turning his head, Ballard addressed one of his men.

"Fetch the prisoners so we can get on with this."

Back on his feet, his breathing now came in shallow bouts as he desperately tried to control the pain coursing through his body in endless waves. He  _needed_  Ballard to relinquish his hold on the wounded arm, or he knew he'd be unconscious by the time things got interesting.

Having no more cards to play, he decided on a rather desperate move. Trying to keep his voice even, he asked, "Have you started to wonder why your uncle hasn't yet returned?"

Ballard's eyes turned black at the implication, his face twisting in horror.

Aramis pressed on, his tone low and dangerous despite his hitching breath, "He was waiting for us in front of your family home. After he shot at Athos, I killed him by slowly twisting my blade into his gut."

The agonizing grip on his arm was finally released when a furious roar erupted from Ballard's chest. The relief he felt was short-lived, however, when his opponent's pained growl was accompanied by a vicious kick.

When Ballard's boot drove into his already damaged midsection with brutal force, all remaining air rushed out of his lungs. Staggering badly, he lost his last precarious hold on any measure of balance and crashed into the ground beneath him, landing flat on his back.

For one agonizing moment, the world didn't make sense as it continued to spin around him in a haze of blurred images, leaving him utterly confused and disoriented.

Gasping for breath, but seemingly unable to draw enough oxygen to satisfy his starving lungs, he realized that the piercing pain in his chest most likely signaled another broken rib.

Every beat of his heart sent a new wave of misery through his beaten body, and he knew he was only holding on by a thread.

_Not yet._

Refusing to relinquish his tenuous hold on consciousness, he touched his hands to the ground next to him in an attempt to anchor himself. When the world slowly calmed around him, he looked up and recognized that the blurred image of Ballard was aiming a pistol at his chest.

_Of course._  This was just not his day.

Ballard's voice shook with anger when he spoke. "Perhaps there is no need to wait any longer. Taking you apart right here and right now will be  _plenty_  satisfying."

Advancing quickly, Ballard came to hover directly over Aramis's prone form. After readjusting the aim of his pistol, the trajectory now lined up threateningly with Aramis's forehead.

With an ugly sneer in his voice, Ballard said, "Besides, you already know how it feels to lose a brother. After all, you did have to watch Athos die."

Aramis finally heard it then; the creaking sound that signaled that the barn door was opening.

_Not long now._

His next words were only meant to distract and to keep Ballard from pulling the trigger. "I said your uncle shot  _at_  Athos. I never said that he killed him."

The confused look he received was replaced with an angry snarl seconds later as Ballard's attention was drawn by the commotion suddenly erupting behind them.

" _Musketeers."_

Aramis turned his head to see Ballard's three remaining men close ranks as they positioned themselves between their patron and the advancing soldiers; ready to engage in battle.

Catching a brief glimpse of Porthos from his prone position on the ground, Aramis noted the bandage on his friend's arm but was reassured as he watched him twirl his sword through the air before bringing it down on his opponent with unbelievable force and a roar of fury.

The anger rolled off his friend in waves and Aramis realized that he was at least partly responsible for the mad rage he witnessed.

He understood then that he would have to answer to another lecture about recklessness and irresponsibility in the near future. At the moment, however, he felt nothing but immense relief at witnessing Porthos's lively anger.

When his eyes fell on d'Artagnan, he felt his brow furrow in concern. Half of the younger man's face was covered in blood while one arm was drawn tightly around his midsection. Still he met his opponent with the same ferocity Aramis was used to seeing from his young friend.

It was the only reassurance he would be granted for the moment as Ballard's voice forced him to focus his attention on his own precarious situation.

"They will not be fast enough to save you." The threat was infused with equal parts of determination and madness.

Watching as Ballard's finger tightened on the trigger, Aramis was only slightly surprised at his lack of concern.

Holding on to the complete faith he felt in regards to his brothers, he closed his eyes and waited.

' _Don't ever forget that we are brothers who fight for each other; no matter what.'_

' _One of us will have you in their sight at all times to intervene if needed.'_

The report of a musket echoed across the yard, and Ballard's blood-curdling scream rendered the air as the ball hit its mark.

_Treville._

Tearing his eyes open at the sound, Aramis watched his opponent stagger back a step, his pistol slipping from his fingers.

The ball had torn through Ballard's lower right side, carving its way through muscle and flesh.

Painful, but not immediately fatal.

Too quickly Ballard recovered his wits; no doubt fueled by rage and adrenaline. Unsheathing his dagger, he advanced on Aramis once more with mad and lethal intent.

Extremely tired of his prone and utterly helpless position on the ground, he gritted his teeth and pushed up onto his left elbow.

Panting harshly at the movement, he wasn't able to stifle his grunt of pain at the horrible sensation of his broken bones grating together and threatening to pierce his skin from the inside.

" _Aramis!"_

Turning his head towards the frantic shout, he saw Treville advancing at a full out sprint. His captain's pistol was primed and aimed, but he was not yet in range to fire.

Drawing on his usually endless supply of stubbornness and determination, Aramis managed to sit up the rest of the way, his injured arm drawn tightly around his badly damaged ribcage.

The effort required to complete the simple task had left his tired body shaking and no matter how much he tried, he was unable to ignore the wildfire of pain raging within.

Looking up, he barely glimpsed the flash of steel which heralded Ballard's main gauche descending upon him with alarming velocity.

There was no time for him to even regret the fact that he didn't have a weapon to use in his defense.

Awaiting whatever outcome he was destined for, he jerked backward with surprise when another blade suddenly appeared from the side and swiftly parried the dagger meant for his throat.

_Porthos._

His friend swept over Ballard like a furious hurricane, driving him back with brute force.

"Draw your god damn sword and  _fight_. I have a promise to keep." Porthos's voice thundered through the yard, his features reminding of a raging storm. "You  _will_ die today."

In the face of the Musketeer's unrelenting fury, Ballard scrambled to discard his main gauche in favor of drawing his rapier. With one last menacing glance at Aramis, he seemed to realize that he would have to forego his revenge if he wished to have a fighting chance.

Grateful for Porthos's timely intervention but loath to sit idly by while his friend fought his battle, Aramis attempted to push himself off the ground. When a lightning bolt brutally pierced his side, he immediately seized all movement, knowing something was terribly wrong when he felt his fragmented ribs shift within.

His vision grew dim.

_Not yet._

Focused on regaining control over the agony flooding his system, he jerked in surprise when he felt a hand gently squeeze his shoulder. Whipping his head around, he found d'Artagnan crouched next to him, a frown on his bloody face.

"Easy, it's just me."

Briefly looking past his young friend to gauge the situation, Aramis noticed three dead bodies sprawled on the ground; it seemed that his friends had made quick work of the last of Ballard's force.

His eyes next searched for Treville and Athos and found them standing only a few yards away. Closely observing the battle raging before them, his captain and lieutenant were clearly prepared to aid Porthos at a moment's notice should the need arise.

They needn't have worried.

Porthos du Vallon was all hellfire and fury as his broadsword was guided with merciless force. Leaving Ballard no opportunity to mount a counter attack, the traitor was left to parry desperately and retreat in the face of Porthos's violent assault.

_It was almost over._

"Aramis?" There was an edge of concern in d'Artagnan's voice.

"Hm?" He had a hard time focusing past the pain now.

"I asked if you are alright. You look awfully pale."

Strange. He hadn't heard the question the first time. Although that might have something to do with the buzzing in his ears.

"You shouldn't judge a man's appearance when your own face is covered in blood." Aramis forced a smile and vehemently tried to ignore the pressure building inside his chest.

"Yes well, I'm only following your advice. You always tell me the ladies appreciate battle scars."

The chuckle that escaped him at d'Artagnan's retort quickly turned into a violent cough as his breath hitched and his muscles contracted.

A fire, seemingly hotter than the sun, spread through his insides with every desperate gasp of air and every grating cough, seizing his abdomen with an iron fist.

"Aramis? Tell me what's wrong.  _Aramis._ "

Unable to form the words necessary to alleviate d'Artagnan's worry, he focused on the one thing that mattered at this moment.

He would not succumb to the darkness trying to claim him as long as Ballard still drew breath. He would hold out until this was over.

Looking up with bleary eyes, he witnessed Porthos deliver a powerful strike at a downward angle, slicing his opponent's chest in a spray of blood.

Ballard went to his knees.

Aramis lost focus once more when another violent cough shook his body. Feeling a sticky substance on his lips, he dragged his shaking hand over his mouth and detected a smear of red covering his glove.

He looked at it almost detachedly, not entirely certain he comprehended its meaning.

"Athos. Something is wrong with him." D'Artagnan's voice now held an edge of panic.

Breaking his confused stare on his bloody glove, Aramis quickly wiped it on his breeches and locked his eyes back onto Porthos.

From his position on the ground, Ballard weakly raised his sword in a last desperate attempt to save his life when Porthos's shianova finally pierced his chest with a brutal thrust.

_It was done._

When Porthos pulled his broadsword free of Ballard's torso, and Aramis witnessed his enemy slide sideways to the ground, the last of his resolve crumbled together with Ballard's lifeless form and he finally relinquished his stubborn and desperate hold on consciousness.

The last thing his mind processed before his awareness slipped completely was the panic in Porthos's eyes and the horror in Athos's voice.

" _Aramis!"_

_TBC_

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_Thanks for reading :) Reviews are most welcome. Only one more chapter to go._


	9. Chapter 9

_Epilogue_

_Porthos POV_

Leaning forward in the chair he currently occupied, Porthos slowly ran one hand through his short curls and sighed deeply before resting his arms on his thighs.

He had rarely ever felt this tired.

The rush and adrenaline of battle had long since left his system, leaving only bone weary exhaustion and fatigue.

To make matters worse, it seemed that his head was not going to cease its merciless pounding as small darts of misery pierced the area behind his eyes, setting his nerve endings on fire.

And yet, he would not allow himself to rest until he knew for certain that Aramis was not going to die silently while he slept.

Resigning himself to the fact that his brother's condition would likely remain undecided for a while yet, he continued his silent vigil at Aramis's bedside; much like he had for the past hour since the physician had left.

The oppressive silence surrounding him threatened to suffocate as the absolute stillness of the only other occupant in the room instilled true fear in his heart.

Porthos was unable, however, to avert his gaze from the unmoving form of his best friend, forced to watch the desperate battle taking place right before his eyes and utterly powerless to assist in any meaningful way.

Propped up on several blankets they had been able to find in the small farm building they currently occupied, Aramis's pale form continued to fight for each labored breath despite his elevated position.

When his mind suddenly raced back to the moment he had watched his friend collapse in the yard outside, Porthos's heartbeat quickened at the memory, and he became fractionally more alert.

Shifting restlessly in his chair, he once again saw the image of Aramis's struggle in his mind's eye.

Fighting to draw enough air into his lungs, his friend's blue tinged lips had spoken of a lack of oxygen while the bright red substance emerging with every strangled cough had been a frightening indication of unseen damage within.

After frantically undoing Aramis's leathers and gasping at the obvious damage to his ribcage, they had quickly decided that it would be madness to attempt to ride for Paris.

The mottled bruising covering Aramis's side was still as dramatic as it had been the day before. Only now, one could easily determine that three of his ribs featured multiple fractures. The deformity was obvious beneath his skin as Aramis's chest visibly flailed with every tortured breath.

Squeezing his eyes shut tightly in an effort to rid himself of the disturbing images, Porthos only managed to replace them with the physician's equally as upsetting and vague diagnosis.

The man's words suddenly played an endless song inside Porthos's tattered mind.

… _I'm glad you had the good sense not to put him on a horse. There's a good chance those fractures would have pierced his heart…_

…  _the blood he's coughing up does suggest some form of internal damage…_

… _it's not the liver, blood would be dark…_

…  _by the sound of his breathing, it could be a laceration to the lung tissue. But I don't believe there is any fluid buildup, not yet anyway…_

…  _if the laceration is small enough it might heal on its own, if not he'll slowly get worse until…_

Pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off the throbbing misery pulsing through his head with every heartbeat, Porthos hardly noticed when the door creaked open.

"Porthos."

"Hm?" Slowly turning his head towards the voice penetrating his scrambled thoughts, he saw Athos leaning against the doorframe.

"I asked if there was any change."

Sighing deeply, Porthos replied, "I don't know. He might be breathin' a touch easier than before, but I can't be sure. And 'e hasn't had a bad coughing fit for the past hour; so at least there hasn't been any more blood." Briefly shaking his head, he added, "He hasn't woken yet, though."

Athos briefly bowed his head in acknowledgment, but his brow furrowed in concern, casting a dark shadow over his features as his eyes settled on Aramis. "We need to give him time."

Tiredly brushing his hand down his face in a feeble attempt to cast aside his demons, Porthos felt the sudden need to change the subject. "How's d'Artagnan? He resting yet?"

Not taking his eyes off of their struggling friend, Athos answered, "No. His stubbornness rivals Aramis's. He insists he is fine." Athos finally managed to break the hold Aramis's still form seemed to have on him and looked at Porthos, exasperation shining in his eyes. "He's outside helping Treville pile the bodies onto the cart. He's barely able to keep his feet."

Indicating the space behind him with a tilt of his head, Porthos said, "There's another bed and e' needs to use it." Without permission, his voice took on a frustrated edge. "He has a concussion  _and_  a cracked rib, and I don't feel like worryin' about both of them."

"You are not wrong; he desperately requires rest." Athos crossed his arms in front of his chest and briefly bowed his head. "However, it seems that he needs some time to work through this; the evidence would suggest that he has a hard time seeing Aramis this way."

Deflating quickly, Porthos slowly nodded his head in understanding. "Don't we all?"

His gaze was drawn back to the unmoving occupant in the bed before him and once more he studied the pale features, the injured arm, and the glaringly obvious damage of the partially exposed ribcage.

Sitting on this chair for the past hour, trapped in his own personal nightmare of inactivity and helplessness, had severely lowered his defenses.

Porthos suddenly felt the desperate need to share the thoughts that kept invading his weakened state of mind.

"I was mad at 'im, you know." Looking to Athos, he was not surprised to find two piercing blue eyes settled on him, waiting patiently for his next words. "When I saw 'im standing in the yard, facing Ballard by himself, I felt the urge to go out there and personally strangle him for bein' a self-sacrificing idiot. But somewhere along the way I realized somethin'."

Clearing his throat, he used the time to gather his thoughts. The rumble of his quiet words resonated in his chest when he continued.

"I realized that I haven't been entirely fair. This would've been an impossible situation for anyone to deal with and I shouldn't be allowed to judge his actions if I can't say for certain that I would have acted any differently. As it is, I can't think of a single thing I wouldn't do to save his life, or any one of yours when it came right down to it."

He was so unbelievably tired. "It's just that…"

When his words failed him in the face of his jumbled emotions, Athos quietly finished his sentence for him.

"It is incredibly hard to witness a brother's struggle unfold before your eyes and realize that in the end you can't control the outcome. I do know how you feel." Pushing himself away from the doorframe, Athos walked a few steps and came to stand in front of the bed. "He jumped in front of a firing pistol today to save my life, and I had no say in the matter."

Athos briefly bowed his head in obvious contemplation of his next words. When he looked up, his eyes told of honesty and peace of mind.

"The way I choose to look at it, however, is that now I will be around to return the favor one day."

Porthos nodded his head slowly as he pondered the truth of the words his friend had spoken.

After a moment of silence, Athos said, "I will leave you to your thoughts and attempt to convince d'Artagnan that it is advantageous to lie down  _before_  unconsciousness strikes."

"Good luck with that."

He heard Athos's faint chuckle right before the door closed behind him.

Porthos heavily leaned back in his chair as the oppressive silence settled around him once more. As the moments stretched on, his mind relinquished any hold on conscious thought, deciding to shield itself against the constant anxiety he had been feeling for the better part of the afternoon.

When his aching eyes threatened to surrender to the pull of sleep, he rubbed at them angrily with one hand, refusing to give in.

"You look exhausted. You need to rest."

The words were nothing more than a strained whisper, and yet somehow held the power to revive his tired body in an instant as they pierced his heart with force and sent a jolt of adrenaline running through his veins.

His eyes flew open immediately, coming to rest on the man before him. When he realized that the words had not been a mere figment of his imagination, but that Aramis's piercing eyes were indeed open and looked at him expectantly, his breath hitched.

"You're awake."

Aramis's lips curved into a tired smile. "Still stating the obvious, I see."

There was a breathless quality to Aramis's words and his eyes shimmered with the pain he was trying to hide so desperately. And yet, Porthos felt pure relief surge his system in waves at the mere sound of his voice.

When he replied, however, the utter frustration and fear that had ruled his life for the past hours commanded his tone, and his voice sounded hoarse while his words resonated harshly.

"Well, you'll have to excuse my ignorance. I've been told that there was a possibility you might  _not_  wake up."

He realized his mistake when Aramis's smile dropped instantly and drawing air became a challenge once more.

"I  _am_ sorry, my friend. I did not mean for any of this to happen. But I could not stay behind while you and –"

His explanation was rudely interrupted when his breath hitched and threatened to turn into a cough.

Cursing himself, Porthos leaned forward in his chair and quickly placed one hand on his friend's upper chest, attempting to ground the other man. "No, no, no. None of that. Look at me, Aramis." – Frantic eyes locked to his as his friend fought for breath– "Yeah, that's it. Now breathe, as deeply as you can."

He helplessly watched Aramis struggle to follow his instructions and winced in sympathy when his pale features distorted in pain with every breath deep enough to manipulate his damaged ribcage.

Porthos eyed the vial of laudanum the physician had left behind on the small end table. Obviously having followed his gaze, Aramis placed one hand on Porthos's arm and bit out through gritted teeth, "Please… Not yet."

Seemingly able to slow his breathing and regain a measure of control by sheer force of will, Aramis steadfastly locked on to his eyes and in the face of his friend's plea, Porthos couldn't help but nod slowly in understanding.

After a long moment, his jumbled thoughts returned to the matter at hand, and Porthos suddenly felt the need to set things right. He purposefully softened his voice when he spoke.

"I am the one who owes  _you_ an apology. Even though it wasn't easy to watch you struggle with this mess, I should've never asked you to make a promise I knew you couldn't keep."

Entirely unaccustomed to this level of honesty, he briefly bowed his head to gather his thoughts.

"I do understand that your actions were demanded by your loyalty toward us. That's after all, one of your most honorable attributes and should never be treated as anything but." Lifting his head and catching Aramis's gaze with his, he finished quietly, "I had no right to demand anythin' different."

Aramis blinked at him in surprise. When he formed his reply, Porthos was aware of the effort it cost his friend to keep his voice level.

"I appreciate the sentiment, my friend. More than you know. But there is no need for you to apologize." Pausing briefly, he looked down at the hand still resting on his chest.

"There are precious few things in this world that I hold as dear as your friendship, and I count myself truly fortunate to have brothers in my life that would go to such extreme lengths to defend me against my enemies."

Holding Aramis's steady gaze, he recognized the honesty and truth of his friend's words shining bright and unguarded in his eyes. Startled by the open display of emotion, Porthos swallowed past the lump in his throat but remained silent, sensing his friend was not finished.

"So please know that while your concern might not always be understood in the heat of the moment, it is  _always_  appreciated," Aramis concluded quietly.

Porthos slowly nodded his head in acceptance of his friend's declaration and the mutual understanding passing between them finally calmed his frayed nerves.

Moving his hand to Aramis's shoulder, he squeezed it gently before resting his forearms on his thighs.

When a moment of comfortable silence stretched between them, Porthos watched his friend's eyes slip closed. Just when he thought Aramis had drifted off again, his voice sounded quietly.

"How are the others?" – His tired eyes opened once more. – "How's d'Artagnan?"

"He's concussed, and 'e desperately needs rest." Porthos ran a hand through his curls. "Athos is workin' on it."

Aramis briefly frowned but nodded his head slowly.

With a creak and a groan the door to the small room slid open at that moment to reveal Athos and the younger man they had just been talking about.

His eyes fixed on the ground, d'Artagnan absently rubbed circles on his forehead when he crossed the threshold. The blood that had marred his face had been washed off some time ago, leaving his features drained and far too pale.

When Athos's gaze immediately settled on the sole occupant of the bed, a rare smile brightened his face and he gently nudged d'Artagnan's side. "What did I tell you? He's too damn stubborn to die."

Lifting his head slowly, d'Artagnan blinked in surprise. "Aramis. You're awake." The younger man gingerly sat down on the edge of the other bed, his voice tinged with honest relief when he spoke.

"You have no idea how good it is to see you up. We feared the worst."

It would have been obvious to anyone that severe pain continued to rule Aramis's world; it was written on his pale face and visible in his glazed eyes. As it was, he had yet to attempt any kind of movement.

And yet, he still managed to infuse his reply with fierce disbelief; an obvious effort to alleviate the younger Musketeers worry.

"Seriously? Did no one have any faith in my ability to beat the odds?"

Lowering himself into the other chair in the room, Athos leaned back contentedly and replied without hesitation, "I for one never doubted you for a second."

"Right. Not for a second, huh?" Porthos scoffed. "Liar."

Aramis watched Athos's eyebrow rise in its customary fashion and smiled at the familiar teasing.

Eventually, the marksman's eyes settled on d'Artagnan as the younger man toed off his boots and carefully removed his doublet.

"How are you feeling, my friend?" Aramis asked.

D'Artagnan lifted his head to lock eyes with Aramis, his gaze startlingly sincere. "Better now." When the young man's brow briefly furrowed, his meaning was clear for all to see. "A lot better now."

Averting his eyes after a moment, d'Artagnan settled down in bed and added, "But if you'll all excuse me, I think it is time for me to sleep for a day or two."

Porthos chuckled. "Go for it. We'll have to wake you every few hours, though. Concussion drill."

"Do see that you recover soon," Aramis added tiredly, his strength clearly failing now. "I made a promise to a very lovely young lady back home that you would be returned to her unharmed. And there is no doubt in my mind that I will die a horrible death if I don't make good on that promise."

"You'll have to tell me later how Constance fits into all of this," d'Artagnan muttered, his eyes already closed.

"Oh, we will. Don't know what we would have done without her," Athos said as he locked his gaze with Aramis's, a look of understanding passing between them right before Aramis too finally surrendered to the call of sleep as his eyes slipped shut.

When Aramis's breathing started to even out, Porthos settled back in his chair, trying hard to ignore the still raspy quality of each breath.

"Do you think he'll be al'ight?" The question was spoken quietly and revealed more emotion than he was strictly comfortable with.

He desperately needed rest.

Athos did not hesitate before answering, "He is strong, and he will get through this. There's no doubt that he has a lot of healing to do, but he knows he is not alone."

Porthos's gaze was drawn to the older Musketeer as Athos leaned forward in his chair, his voice earnest.

"The most important thing to remember is that we are each other's keepers, Porthos. Each other's guardians. And as long as that holds true, I believe that we will all be alright."

Staring at Athos for a long moment, his tired mind contemplated the words his friend had spoken. When comprehension dawned, and Porthos slowly nodded his understanding, Athos settled back in his chair and shifted his hat forward to cover his face.

When Porthos locked his gaze onto Aramis once more and watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his friend's chest, a sense of calm finally settled within, allowing him to relinquish his hold on consciousness.

The last thing he was aware of before sleep finally claimed him, was the image of their Captain leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest and a rare smile on his face.

_The End_

* * *

_I really hope you liked the conclusion._

_I am actually sad to see this story end. I had so much fun writing it :) A huge thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited and followed._

_Also a special thank you to all the guest reviewers I couldn't reply to personally. You guys are awesome!_

_I hope to see you all next time. SanB_


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